


Fearless

by EclipsedImpala (LoveDrift)



Series: Fearless: A Tale of the Infinite, Immeasurable Strength of Dean Winchester [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angelic Grace Bonds (Supernatural), Angels (Supernatural) Have Visible Wings, Angels Have Mates, BAMF Bobby Singer, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Blood Loss, Blood and Gore, Broken Dean Winchester, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Castiel and Dean are in love, Castiel is Protective of Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Has Flashbacks of Hell, Dean Winchester Has a Wing Kink, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Dean Winchester Whump, Dean Winchester loves Castiel’s wings, Dean Winchester's Childhood, Dean Winchester's Freckles, Dean gets silly when losing blood, Dean has had a really fucked up childhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e21 When the Levee Breaks, Explicit Language, Explicit medical descriptions of injury, Extremely graphic Depictions of torture, Extremely graphic torture, Genital Torture, Hospital, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester Abuses Dean Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Lest we not forget, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, My take on Grace/Soul Bond, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Profound Bond, Protective Bobby Singer, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Sam Winchester needs to realize how much he's hurt Dean, Soul Bond, Soul Sex?, Telepathic Bond, Telepathic Communication, Torture, impala love, mentions of past rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-05-01 17:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14525577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveDrift/pseuds/EclipsedImpala
Summary: Dean is captured, after an epically bad fight with Sam, and tortured horrifically, cruelly, his body and soul broken and laid bare. Bobby is alive and worried to death... And Cas?Well, someone has HIS Dean.HIS.DEAN.Heaven and Hell hath no fury like a pissed off Castiel.Whump. Gratuitous Dean whump. Some Cas whump too, I guess? Mainly emotional whump because he worries about Dean.AUTHOR SUCKS ASS AT SUMMARIES.





	1. Let's Play The Feud!

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. It has been a looooooong time since I've been here! First off I want to apologize to all of you who have been waiting ever so patiently for my other works. I have not abandoned them at all; I just lost my muse. And then I started watching Supernatural. Game over, folks. I dove on in to this Fandom and never looked back.
> 
> That being said, this is my first fic out of the Transformers IDW verse, therefore it's my first Supernatural fic. Please be kind. I absolutely love Dean. Ridiculously so. I really hope I don't push him too far OOC. 
> 
> This is set somewhere between Season 4 and The Men of Letters Bunker and before the Mark of Cain. If I fucked up with that, I apologize. It's an AU of sorts so... Lol Go with it? I haven't watched past early season 11so please, PLEASE do not spoil anything for me. Thank you! 
> 
> I have more tags to add, but since I'm doing this on my cell phone, well, it's proving to be a huge pain in the ass. I'll update as quick as my muse allows! I have 2 chapters complete as of now. I'm working on chapter 3 at the moment, so we'll see how that goes. I'm going to post one chapter and see how you guys like it and if you want more. *fingers crossed*
> 
> As far as I'm concerned, Bobby ain't dead! 
> 
> I swear I haven't forgot about my other works!

Drip. 

 

 

Drip.

 

Drip. 

 

Drip. 

Drip. 

DRIP. 

DRIP. 

DRIP. 

DRIP.  
DRIP.  
DRIP. 

 

 _Dripping_. 

 

_Fucking annoying._

_Why is it always hearing that returns first, and why is it always soooo loud!?_

 

DRIP. 

DRIP. 

_The fuck is that?! Water?!_

 

_Smells... Wet.... Smells like... Wet...wet...concrete._

 

_Okay._

 

_Okay, Dean, that's two outta five senses...take it easy...Take it slow... Nice and slow._

 

 

_I regain more consciousness, more senses will return and then I can figure out just what the fuck happened. Right?_

 

 

_And just why the fuck I'm really starting to HURT. Can't be good that I just noticed it! And just figure out just how in the FUCK I can get outta here._

 

_I hope._

 

_I feel warm. Really warm. Why do I feel WARM?. ..and...and sticky.... Don't feel good... Everything HURTS._

 

 

_Oh not good._

 

_So not good._

 

Dean focuses on that warmth, discovering that this particular warmth, is moving downward, steadily. From his forehead to his toes. 

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__And everywhere in between._ _

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_Wonderful._

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_Thanks for joining the party, Sense Number3! TOUCH. YAY! The ability to feel! Just what I wanted! To feel how fucking bad I fucking hurt!_

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_Joy of joys. And I'm totally friggin' confused._. 

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Dean runs his tongue against the inside of his cheeks, and then his teeth; Pissed off because TASTE. Good ol'Sense Number four! And THAT taste never, EVER means anything even remotely good. His thoughts are so jumbled... Nothing is making sense and he really doesn't feel good. 

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_What is red and tastes like iron_? 

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_Survey says!_

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_Blood_. 

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_Ding ding ding!_

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_Why am I surprised? I shouldn't be surprised._

 

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_Prize?_

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_Tell'm what he's won, Chuck!_

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_I shouldn't be joking either! Ha! Chuck! Ha ha ha! I'm s'funny._

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_C'mon, Chucky! Chuckles! Chuck! Wha'd'I'win? Don't keep me in suspense! Am I loopy? I should be crying. I'm loopy!_

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_I'm loopy._

 

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_Loooooopy..._

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_Rhymes with..._

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_Poopy!_

 

_Ha!_

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_Wait_

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_Wait... Shuuuuush....quiet! Hee hee... Wait... I was doing something... Numbers._

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_Inward giggle._

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_What was I doing? Counting. Why was I counting? I was counting..._

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______It was important_ _ _ _ _ _

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_Should pro'ly open m'eyes._

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_Tired, Sammy. Wanna go home._

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_Want my Baby._

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_Focus, Daniel-San!_

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**Focus!**

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Dean hears himself giggle. At least, he thinks, it's a giggle. It's really more of a high-pitched, wheezing wet sputter, that launches him into coughing, which leads to projectile blood spray and then the slow drip drip drip of even more of his blood, this time out of his mouth, over his lips and down his chin. 

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And it hurt! Oh AWESOME did it hurt! Intimately. Terrifyingly. Dean hasn't felt anything, pull everything, everywhere, at once... quite like that, upon any kind of vocalization, since... 

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__________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _So fucked. Soooo.... soooo..._

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_Freaking fucked man._

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Dean hasn't felt anything like that since hell. And it has him terrified to find out what _**awesome**_ Sense Number Five has in store for him. 

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_So no prize then. Okay._

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	2. Stickshifts And Safetybelts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awareness

_"No prize, guy, now open eyes!"_

 

_So now my innermonologue sounds like Wheelie from "Transformers: The Movie."?_

 

_The good one though, the 1986 one... not that shitty excuse for one._

_But Wheelie? Really? That dude was annoying as fuck. Such a little Bitch. Heh. No wonder Sammy liked him. Ha!_

_Ow. I hurt. Why do I hurt? Did I pass out? Again? For the first time? Second time? I really liked my Transformers... Cars that transform into giant alien robots! What's not to love?_

 

_Could really use one, or twelve, now..._

 

_Huh? Hm? Wha happ'n?_

Christ-on-a-biycycle, Dean's thoughts are so muddled and scattered. 

_Focus..._

 

Dean slowly, and not without struggle, manages to open his right eye, just not quite fully. More like a cautious three-quarters. And a half. His left eye is badly swollen shut. Of that he's certain, being that he's able to catch the swelling with the peripheral of his right eye a good indicator. 

"F'k..." Dean hisses in pain. "...am I?" 

 

_Fuck nuggets. Hurts to talk. Damn throat hurts! Thank you Captain Obvious._

 

_Focus_

 

_Where was I? Counting..._

 

_Senses..._

 

_Fanfuckingtastic! Sense number 5! C'us'y'know, what I see is so awesome._

 

Dean, now with his right eye open, is finally aware of several things. None of which give him any hope. Or comfort. Nope. None at all. 

_But thanks for playing!_

 

_The shit show that is Dean Winchester proudly announces: "Several Things That Lessen Dean's Chances For Survival!"_

 

Let's begin... 

1\. His head is hanging between his shoulders. 

 

2\. His shoulders and arms are above him. 

 

3\. He's staring at a crimson pool three feet(?) beneath him. 

4\. He's suspended in the air, three feet(again,?) off the fucking ground. 

 

5\. It's his blood that's fucking annoying him as it drips   
from his toes into the crimson puddle. 

 

6\. The crimson puddle is from his blood. 

 

7\. A lot of his blood. 

 

8\. A whole lot of his blood. 

 

9\. That's probably why he's loopy. 

 

10\. He's naked. And not for the fun and kinky. 

 

_Oh God. What if it's a bad... A very bad kinky? I can't... No... I won't... Not... No... Not. Going. There. Not again. God, please... Not again._

 

11\. There is a giant meat hook impaled in his right flank, the barbed, curled end sticking out his front and facing to the right. 

 

12\. He likes making numbered lists. 

 

13\. He finds number twelve hilarious. 

 

14\. HE'S HANGING UP THREE GODDAMN FEET IN THE AIR _(Let's face it, I made up the whole 3 feet thing. It could be more! Maybe less! Who knows? Not me? Allow me a cruel chuckle)_ WITH A FUCKING MEAT HOOK INSIDE HIM. 

 

Just. Like. Hell. 

 

_And that's just swellllll...._

 

_Why am I rhyming? I'm way more outta it...than I thought..._

 

_Focus, damn it!_

 

Dean attempts to draw in a long breath for much needed oxygen, but only manages a short, sharp intake of air that has him trying, and failing, to curl in on himself with the marrow deep, molten white hot agony of it. 

 

He finds himself lost in time, writhing in the air, pain so intense, so all consuming, that it has become a living entity alongside him, demanding and unforgiving, taking taking taking.... Taking so much more than Dean has to give. 

 

The meat hook twists inside Dean as he twists in the air; The hook tugging and tearing at him, with every strangled gasp, shortened breath, violent cough, every terror filled scream and sob, wrought from his abused body, heart and soul. 

***

Dean comes back to consciousness with a gasp, right eye snapping open. 

 

This time Dean is staring up; his neck thrown back, chin tilted upward, his good eye blinking back haze as he focuses on the strange sight before him. 

 

_Huh. Well that explains why it feels like there's freaking barbed wire scratching my bones... BECAUSE THERE FUCKING IS BARBED FREAKING WIRE SCRATCHING MY BONES!!_

 

_I really don't feel well._

 

_I really, really don't feel well._

 

Dean's eye closes again, too heavy to keep open. 

 

Sometime later he snaps wide awake, unsure what woke him this time. He idly wonders how much time has passed. 

 

Dean slowly tips his head down before rolling it to rest on his right bicep. The image of blood and too white bone, steel tendrils threading through his torn flesh, grating against his bone...is just...too much. 

 

_Can't look a'tha'shit no more.... Feel sick._

 

Despite sincere protest, Dean's curiosity and eye betray him, and he finds himself glancing quickly from up at his hands, to the rest of his...incarceration. 

 

_Well fuck me sideways..._

 

_Mmm...Sideways...That's always fun. New angle...Thigh grips...Oh yeah...Thigh. Grips....Calgon, take me away!_

 

Dean inwardly snickers. 

 

Then he starts to fade again, blood loss and pain, taking a heavy toll. 

 

_..."Fearlessly the idiot faced the crowd, smiling,"..._

 

_Man, I lovffs that song..."And as I rise above the fear line in his..."_

 

_Rise above...'bove...._

Dean opens his eye again unaware of it closing. 

_Fuck. G'ss'm'stil'ere...._

 

_Slurrin' wor's in m'head canna be gu'd_

 

_FOCUS!_

 

_Hands...Blood...Hook...Barbed freaking wire, man. Barbed wire. And not the shitty movie. Well, "Barbed Wire" did have its...perks. Ha! Damn I'm good._

_No...Nope...I'm really not...._

 

The barbed wire was wrapped around both of Dean's forearms, from an inch or two below both his elbows, down to his wrists, then hands, all joined together as one. The barbed wire was then placed over a meat hook in much the same manner a worm is placed on a fishing hook. His weight is resting on the space of wire joining his hands. _Awesomeness. I'm bait. How apropos. That's right, Professor Bitch, I ain't as stupid as you and dad, and everyone else, think I am._ The hook was purposely welded to a steel bar... 

 

That runs... 

 

_C'mon you sonovabitch...Where ya runnin' ta...._

 

Dean struggles to take in everything he can before the pain drags him back under, the strain bringing a trickle of blood and sweat mix that runs into his eye. He rapidly blinks away the droplets and the black dot fireworks that threaten his vision. 

 

_No no no....Stay awake....Stay....wake..._

 

_So tired. So tired._

 

_Focus. Wake up...I'm wake..._

 

Dean follows the steel bar, wait... Not a bar... 

 

_Well I'll be damned..._

 

It's not just a bar like he'd thought. It's the main support beam of the structure he's in. Which, is no where near as large as Dean originally thought. 

 

The whole structure is about 30 feet by 30 feet. One story. Concrete floor. Wet concrete. Flat roof. Metal. Concrete walls prob.... 

 

Once Dean's inspection shifts to the wall in front of him, it stalls out as quick as Bobby's old Chevelle did when Dean taught Sammy how to drive stick in it. 

 

Sammy never did get the hang of it...


	3. Man In The Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inventory and Realization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit! This chapter took foreveeeeer! I do apologize! Every time I read it I had to add more! My muse just wouldn't stop! I have chapter 4 started already, so I hope to update sooner rather than later.
> 
> I apologize for all mistakes. I've been out of the writing game for 3 years so I know I'm rusty. Just please be patient. Pwease? 
> 
> Dean's inner thoughts and flashbacks of John yelling are italized. There is a scene, a tiny one really, where it's an actual flashback flashback, not just a memory of words. That scene is separated by vertical lines and is not italized. I really hope it's not confusing. It was hard to flesh it out. 
> 
> I borrowed the vertical line thingy from the most amazing Supernatural fic ever, by Charlieforshort called "Breathe". It is just... OMG... If you're a sucker for Dean Whumpage like myself, please do yourself a favor and read "Breathe". It's just absolutely perfect. 
> 
> Anyway, she used them and it was a genius idea, so I borrowed it. I hope that was okay, Charlieforshort! XOXOXO 
> 
> Cas, Bobby, and Sam are in this chapter along with Dean. 
> 
> Sam is a bitch in this. He's pissed, so all you Moose fans are gonna hate me. I promise it won't last long, as I feel it would be way OOC for him. 
> 
> I have plans, so just bear with me, guys! 
> 
> Nice comments are always welcomed and appreciated! 
> 
> I hope you guys like! 
> 
> If I need to add triggers for specific things, please please please let me know! I do not want anyone to be triggered at all. 
> 
> As that stands, this chapter with have very graphic details of torture inflicted wounds. So if you're squimish, avoid? Maybe? I have no clue what is too dark for everyone because for me it seems light. I dunno. 
> 
> Ima stop talking now. Lol Thumbs are tired.

Dean's stomach plummets to his knees simultaneously as bile surges up in his throat. 

 

He clenches his jaw, completely unprepared when he sees himself glaring back. 

And completely unprepared for the condition he finds himself.

The walls, all of them, are covered in floor to ceiling mirrors.

 

Fucking mirrors.

 

MIRRORS. 

_Some dickhead has a fucking warped-ass sense of humor._

 

Dean's Adam's apple bobs furiously as he takes himself in; tears and sweat and blood annoyingly trickle down from his forehead, stinging his good eye. 

 

Holy shit. 

 

Holy. 

 

Fucking. 

 

Shit. 

 

The hunter inhales deeply, well, he TRIES to inhale deeply, but his lungs can't fill fully.

 

His ribcage won’t expand... It can’t expand. 

 

Of fucking course. 

 

_How could I forget that feeling._

 

_Snarky and sarcastic even in your own head, huh, Dean?_

 

He tries for another deep breath, because, hey, he’s a glutton for punishment. 

 

Asshole. 

 

He hears and feels his ribs grinding against each other as he again tries to take in enough air. Dean gasps sharply as fire engulfs his chest from the effort. 

 

Not good. 

 

So. 

 

Not.

 

Good. 

 

Dean pleads with himself to get a handle on the pain.

 

_I feel sick._

 

_How in the fuck did I let this happen?!_

 

_Why can't I remember?!_

 

Dean should be in a whole world of freaking hurt. He’s so confused. 

 

Wait. Wasn’t he just trying to get a hold of the pain? Did he? 

 

So confused. 

 

_...Not that I'm complaining...that I’m not feeling pain at the moment…_

_...and I'm not..._

_I mean, I just was hurting... Wasn't I?_

 

_It hurts..._

_Freakin’ hell, man! It hurts._

_But...something..._

_Somethings wrong._

 

Really wrong.

 

 _Fuck, man. I'm so confused!_

 

Dean tries, and fails, miserably, to hold in a sob of anguish and pain. 

For the first time in a very long time, he feels like a scared little boy. 

And he hates it. 

Man oh man does he hate it. 

He hates how vulnerable he is. 

 

How weak. 

 

How helpless. 

 

How scared. 

 

And one thing Dean Winchester is NOT, is vulnerable, weak, or scared. 

 

Or helpless. 

 

But he is. 

 

His father always knew. 

 

Don't cry... 

 

Don't cry, goddamnit! 

 

"... Stuh... Stop...cr-cry...crying..." Dean rasps to himself, tears flowing freely, damming in his long eyelashes before breaking lose to stream down his beat up face as he loses himself to memories of his father’s drunken rage-filled tirades of emotional and physical abuse. 

 

_'Stop crying, Dean! You're pathetic, Dean!'_

_'Only babies cry, Dean! Only weak men cry, Dean!'_

_'Only GIRLS cry, Dean. Are you a girl?'_

_'Only fags cry, Dean. Are you a fag, Dean?'_

_'One job, Dean! One fucking job and you fuck it up!'_

_'Sammy is THE ONLY one that matters, Dean! Not you! Especially when you can't even take a beating like a man! How many fucking times do I have to tell you?!’_

 

| “B-but, but, d-d-daddy… I’m only 7!  
| I-I’m n-not a man ye-“  
| SMACK  
| “You’re goddamn right you’re not! A  
| man could fucking take care of his  
| little brother and take a beating!  
| You’re a fucking failure, Dean. You  
| are so fucking worthless. Such a  
| disappointment.”

 

_'What's next, huh, ya dumb fuck? Ya gonna piss yourself too?'_

_'Pathetic! Cowboy the fuck up, Dean!'_

_'This, this right here- your weak, pathetic behavior-this is why I wish Mary and I only had Sammy. You're worthless, Dean. You exist only to watch out for Sammy-to keep him safe. No matter the cost. He's the smart one. He's the one that needs to be protected. Even your mother loved him more. Why do you think she went to him and not you?'_

 

The flashbacks stop as abruptly as they started leaving Dean in even worse shape than before. 

 

"... S-suh....suh-suh...sorry, duh-dad... Suh...Suh.....ammy..."

 

“So suh-sorry….” 

 

Dean shudders violently against a sudden, agonizing onslaught of fire and ice shredding through his tortured body and soul, and this time he can't hold back the heartbreaking howl of his pain, both physical and emotional, or the voice-cracking whimpering prayer for the one person who truly knows his worthless soul and still gives a damn: 

 

 _Cas..._

 

_Fight, Dean._

 

 _Fight._

 

Dean imagines it’s Cas’ raspy growl in his head with a steady litany of ‘Fight, Dean, Fight! Stay awake!’ 

 

Dean fights against the darkness hovering at the edges of what little remains of his red-tinted vision. 

 

He's determined to remain conscious long enough to catalog his wounds. 

 

He's naked, save for the meat hook in his right flank and the blood; some of which has dried, some drying, most is freshly bleeding. Damn near his entire body is covered in blood. 

 

_I look like freaking Carrie!_

 

He half sobs, half laughs in utter misery; his own attempt to cover his pain with humor, falling flat. 

 

Dean shuts his eye hoping when he opens it again this'll be nothing but a nightmare. If that don't work, he hopes Cas will be standing in front of him telling him it's time to go home. 

 

The Righteous Man opens his eye... 

 

 _I never was that lucky..._

 

Once again Dean takes stock of his appearance; freckles, blood and bruising stand out sharply against his pallor. 

 

He swallows a few times trying to wet his dry throat. 

 

He can't stop shivering now. 

 

He can’t stop his teeth from chattering.

 

_Christ almighty I'm fucking..._

 

 _...fucked up!_

 

Dean's pelvis doesn't look quite right. His left side is drooping awkwardly and the turn of his hip is all wrong. His left leg is fucking longer than his goddamn right.

 

He's awfully swollen down...down...there too. 

 

Dean forces himself to look closer at his dick and balls.

 

Jesus. His balls are swollen like he hasn’t cum in months. 

 

Scratch that. 

 

Years. 

 

Well shit. It probably has been years. Dean hasn’t been with anyone since Lisa.

 

Another failure of his. 

 

“Juh… just me an'my… muh-my… hand.”

 

So fucking pathetic. 

 

_Can’t even get laid and now…_

 

Fuck it hurts just looking at’m. Dean bites his bottom lip and shifts his gaze up a bit to look at Little Dean. Yikes! A bit red. Swollen too. And… and… blood?! 

 

Dean whimpers. A real, actual whimper. 

 

And now he’s getting angry. 

 

Really. 

 

Fucking. 

 

Angry.

 

Whoever did this is going to die. Slowly. And very, very, VERY painfully. 

 

 

_Cas… I need ya. I really, really need ya… I really hope ya got your ears on, buddy. Please, Cas. I… I don’t …. I dunno know how long I can h-hold on…_

 

Not. 

 

Not good. 

 

The more he catalogs his injuries, the more he realizes just how dire his situation. 

 

Dean's right knee is clearly dislocated. His left ankle is twisted disgustingly, so, yeah, obviously, broken. 

 

And it only gets worse the further up his body he looks.

 

There's a deep gash extending from his sternum, to his upper left flank, and... 

 

And... 

 

Aw fuck... 

 

...five of his lower ribs on his left are completely exposed, and from the lovely view he’s presented with, broken. The muscle that normally covers his forever-getting-broken ribs, is now torn and hanging gruesomely along with shredded flaps of his skin. 

 

Hospital. Yep.

 

Hospital stay is a definite. 

 

_If I live that long._

 

Dean desperately fights off wave after wave of nausea the more he stares at the reflection of his broken body.

 

_Cas…_

 

Dark blood sluggishly seeps from where the meat hook has entered him; A pregnant sanguine river meandering across the plain of his abdomen, over hard ridges of muscles, around his distended pelvis to the curve of his hip and down his thigh, down the inside of his knee, along his well defined calf muscle, across the top of his foot to drip off his toes into the flourishing pool beneath him. He can feel blood running down his back, over his ass and down his right leg. 

 

The blood... 

 

So much blood... 

 

His blood... 

 

And it's nauseating.

 

_Cas._

 

Vivid black and deep violet bruising have quickly announced themselves in a ring around the meat hook, all up along his right and left sides, across his pectoral muscles, rib cage, pelvis, ankle, knee, and along the hard line of collarbone, save for a slice of white providing a sickening contrast. 

 

Dean focuses on that slice of white along his collarbone. He stares until it forms a coherent image in his mind. 

 

Fuck. 

 

It's his collarbone, well, part of it anyway, jutting out of his skin. 

With strange detachment he continues his perusal. 

 

His face… 

... is a bloody mess. 

 

_Cas… Cas please. Fucking goddamn Profound Bond bullshit!_

 

The entire left side of Dean’s face , from temple to neck, is swollen grotesquely, the skin pulled taught, and shiny. He can't even see where an eye would be. It's red and black and angry. There's a six inch? Ten inch? long gash running at an angle from the left side of his head, across what would be his eyebrow, if it wasn't so swollen, across his nose, which may or may not be broken, down his right cheek just under his eye, to his jaw under his ear. Dean can't tell how wide or deep it is, he assumes pretty fucking though, due to the amount of blood half congealed, half trickling from it. 

 

_I'm freaking exhausted from looking in a mirror._

 

The hunter refuses to look back at his arms. He just can't. It's too much. It's all too fucking much. He settles for the comfort of a blood soaked bicep instead, (said bicep belonging to the shoulder with the handprint of a certain angel-his angel- on it, well, Dean will reflect, pun most definitely intended on whatever that means later), his eyelid fluttering until it stills, for once the black dots exploding like fireworks in his vision are welcome, and Dean finally-finally- gives in, his last thoughts of Cas. 

 

___________________

 

Castiel is fuming; Angelic wrath throbbing icy hot through his Grace. 

 

Dean. His charge. His...his whole universe. His...No. Castiel cannot go down that path. He know his feelings are unrequited. It is far too painful to reflect upon, and yet, he cannot deny that he needs Dean. It is a simple truth. A truth Castiel has been avoiding for quite sometime. A truth Castiel can no longer deny. 

 

He loves his Dean. 

 

And his Dean has been missing for two days.

 

Castiel can’t find Dean. 

 

Anywhere. 

 

He can only sense the slightest trace of Dean through their Profound Bond.

 

And that slight trace is enough to absolutely terrify Castiel, because that slight trace is nothing but excruciating pain and torment. 

 

Which is why the glare that Castiel fixes Sam Winchester with is of celestial proportions.

 

"What do you mean you do not know where your brother is!" Castiel's tone is menacing. Downright terrifying. If there was ever any doubt that Castiel is an Angel, a warrior, none remains now. 

 

Sam and Bobby both retreat a step, ducking the light bulb shards from the exploding kitchen light, courtesy of the angel's wrath. 

 

Castiel continues to glare, debating whether or not to stretch his wings for good measure.

 

He's not angry with Bobby Singer, though. 

 

His wrath is for Sam. 

 

And Sam alone. 

 

Sam let his brother go after a heated exchange (Castiel was not present at the time) and Sam had made no attempt to search for Dean when Dean had not returned home. Dean was aware Bobby was en route to the Bunker, and Castiel knew that his— _emphasis on his—_ Dean would not miss the older hunter and surrogate fathers return. 

 

Castiel narrows his eyes at the youngest Winchester, satisfied with Sam's flinch despite the self-righteous upturn of Sam's lips. 

 

Sam smirks at Castiel, his reply heavily laced with spite. "How should I know? I don't keep tabs on him. That's Dean's MO. Not mine," Sam picks an apple up from a bowl on the kitchen table, buffing it on his shirt, allowing his words to sink in; the pause having his desired effect if Bobby's sharp inhale and the puffing out of Castiel's chest are any indication. 

Sam takes a bite of the apple and continues, "It's pathetic, really. He's Pathetic. It’s creepy too, how he '... has to watch out for Sammy’. Well he fucked that up too, didn’t he?” 

Sam laughs and shakes his head. “Turns out Dad was right about Dean after all.” 

 

"Boy...I outta slap you back ta next Tuesdee... After all that brother a yours has done for yer sorry, ungrateful ass," Bobby adjust his worn out baseball cap and steps in Sam's space. "...and that's how ya talk about him?" 

 

Castiel watches the exchange with interest, ready to step in should it be required of him. He likes Bobby. Respects him. Most of all Castiel likes how Bobby treats Dean. Sam's words against his brother were both heartbreaking and cruel. 

 

And WRONG. 

 

John Winchester… Oh Dean. Of course Sam had to bring that beast into it. Just one more way to hurt Dean. 

 

Castiel suppresses the incessant urge to tear Sam apart if only for Dean. 

 

Sam and Bobby stare at each other, the tension between the two hunters pulling so taught it threatens to snap. 

 

Bobby shakes his head, shoulders slumping in resignation, sadness evident when he finally speaks. "Ya just don't get it, do'ya, Sam? You really haven'a foggiest what that boy has done fer ya all yer life," 

 

Sam straightens to his full height and looks down at Bobby, dismissive. "Seriously, Bobby? What Dean has done for me? He's treated me like an ignorant child all of my life! He could never accept that I wanted a life—MY life—away from him and dad! He tried to control me! Hell, Bobby, he still does! I can see why Dad beat the shit out of Dean! Dean is a needy little bitch with major abandonment issues. He can't survive alone. How in the hell can you not see that? Oh, that's right, how stupid of me to forget: Dean's your favorite. Oh! And let's not forget how much of a hypocrite Dean is! It's okay for him to eye-fuck a certain angel, and oh how Dad would looove that, but yeah, Cas, that's right, my brother is in full gay denial love with you—a fucking ANGEL—but I was the monster for fucking a demon? C'mon! And let’s not forget the endless lies! When does it stop with him? Never. It will never stop with him. Brother or not... I am done dealing with his shit." 

 

Sam looks over Bobby to Cas, who looks completely shell-shocked, heh, sorry Cas, dear old Dean will never admit it to himself, let alone you, and spits venom, "Do I know where he is, Cas? No. Do I give a rats ass? No. Fuck. Him. I called him out on his bullshit, he got all weepy eyed and pathetic, stormed out that door..., " Sam stabs the air with his finger in the direction of the bunker door, "...and that was that." 

Sam steps around Bobby and tosses his apple at Castiel, slightly disappointed when Cas snatches it out of the air with ease. "We're done here." Sam turns and stalks put of the kitchen. 

 

"Dick," Bobby mutters to Sam's retreating form. 

 

"Ass butt," Castiel yells to Sam, getting a middle finger in response. 

 

Bobby turns and faces Castiel, "Well ain't he a picture." 

 

"He is lucky Dean loves him," Castiel’s eyes remain focused down the hall where Sam retreated. 

 

Shooting Cas a sideways glance with a furrowed brow, Bobby questions, "An'why is that?" 

 

Castiel slowly turns his head to face Bobby, "He would no longer draw breath."

 

Bobby raises an eyebrow, snorting, before he sighs, worry heavy in his voice, "So whada we do now, Cas?" 

 

"I do not know, Bobby."

 

"I do not know."

 

_______________________

 

Rachel has been torturing Dean Winchester for a total of 48 hours, 37 minutes and 42 seconds.

 

And she’s just getting started.


	4. "Evil. Ornery, Scandalous and Evil."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby and Cas talk. Sort of. Dean gets whumped. Torture. Lots of inner dialogue. Bobby has an internal chick flick moment. Maybe? I suck at summaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear lord..... This chapter, well, it's more like HALF the chapter I wanted to post, but I had to post it. Otherwise I'd continue to pick it apart and edit the shit outta it even more! Every time I read it, I add more. Then I think I'm screwing up the characters... UGH! It never ends. So I said "Fuck it". I'm posting. And do not worry! The next update won't be long. I hope.
> 
>  
> 
> _______****Edited July 3rd, 2018****_________
> 
> As I've said, this chapter was a right pain in my ass, so, with the help of THE AMAZING AND SUPER AWESOME TIBBINS (whom I am foreeeevvvvvveeeerrrrr appreciative, ever so gratful; in your debt, my awesome friend, and super duper awesomely lucky to have in my life) I was able to fix some shit up. You will notice changes in dialogue between Bobby and Cas, and then a tiny bit with Rachel, lol (whore) and her inner monologue. 
> 
> Tibbins, you have been soooo incredibly supportive. I know not how to repay you other than dedicating Chapter 5 to you, which, by the waaaaaay, is just choo-choo-choo-ing along! All thanks to, you, Tibster! My inspiration! 
> 
> I gotta say, guys, it is a truly awesome pleasure to be a part, albeit a small one, of this amazingly awesome Fandom. The Supernatural Fandom feels like family, and family to me, as it is to our beloved Dean, is everything to me regardless of blood. And, I gotta say, blood ain't always family or good in my experience. 
> 
> Any-hoo, 'nuff a that self-pity shit. 
> 
> You guys are fucking awesome! You're actually.... Really... Nice! And not mean. Which is rare for me as I hail from the realm of Transformers. And let me tell you that that (is that even proper grammar?' that that'? I hate when I do it. It don't seem right lol) Fandom has the most trolls, the most flames, the worst of the worst, most self-righteous, nasty, mean, cruel, hurtful to the point where they make sensitive folk, myself included want to hurt themselves/kill themselves/hide, you name it, they are vicious fucking assholes with a mere suggestion of nice fans. And oh! How could I forget! They will betray you and steal your work too. It's happened to me on several occasions. 
> 
> Sooooooooooo..... You guys are awesome. Y'all are some of the most talented and creative authors I've come across. Did I mention how nice, supportive, helpful, awesome, and just super duper awesome you are? 'Cause ya are! XOXOXOXO
> 
> ____________****END EDIT****_______________  
>  
> 
> So all that's one part of why it's taken me so long. The other is that I have been working on my "Baby", a 1997 Mitsubishi Eclipse Spyder GST, to get her road worthy. She has been demanding a great deal of attention and she will continue to do so. Lol But that's okay 'cause I love her! 
> 
>  
> 
> Sooo.... I'm not sure what to say as far as a warning for this chapter. Definitely warning for explicit torture and excessive expletives,' cause, ya know, Dean and all. And I FIRMLY believe if Supernatural was on HBO instead of CW, friggin' and freaking would without a doubt be fucking. Lol Soooo.... Um.... Torture and stuff. Blood. Gore.... And... Heh.... Some kinda sexually explicit details.... I'll note that at the end. Jeez.... Okay. Shudddding up now.
> 
> Oh! One more thing.... I wanted, really wanted to squeeze in Sam's point of view, but he was being sooooooooooo sooooooooooo sooooooooooo sooooooooooo fucking stubborn. Next chapter. Promise.

Bobby sighs, taking one last look down the hallway and shakes his head at the other Winchester he considers a son as well.

The hell’s gotten into Sam? He sure as shit ain’t acting like himself. 

 

_I'mana hafta set his ass straight. Sam, Sam, Sam…Boy… if ya only knew what Dean sacrificed for you. What he did FOR you._

_Aw, Dean. Damn it. I love that boy sumthin fierce. Shoulda been me raisin’ him not that bastard John._

And boy did John Winchester fuck Dean up bad. 

_I should really tell Dean how much I love’m. Much as he says he hates ‘chick flick moments’, he loves ‘em. Jus’ won’t admit it a’course. He needs ta know though._

_What a stupid old man ya are, Bobby. Yellin’ at the kid about expressin’ his feelings when all we’ve ever dun is try’n’get his damn high walls down enough to tell us how he feels. Damn it all, but I’m the biggest idjit of ‘em all!_

_Shoulda taken those two from John the minute I saw the pained, soulful green eyes of a four-year-old with the world on his too tiny shoulders, holding his baby brother._

Bobby washes his face with his hands, the tips of his fingers tipping his cap up slightly. He can’t walk down the path of ‘what if’. He’s done it before and all the good it did was illuminate his failures through the looking glass of a tipped up bottle. 

Bobby readjusts his ball cap and thoughts to the here and now. 

And there ain’t nuthin good about now either. 

“Balls.” 

_Damn it, son, what ina hell has got ya now._

As if his heart couldn’t break any more for Dean. The damn finest man Bobby has ever known. Better’n him. Better than John. Better’n Sam. Dean doesn’t even know his worth. And that boy in no way deserves any of the agony life has heaped his way. 

And then there’s Cas… 

Castiel Angel of The Lord. Bobby rolls eyes as far back as he can. Be damned if Cas didn’t worm his way into Bobby’s heart as well. Friggin’ angel… Angel who just happens to need Dean as much as Dean needs him. 

Cas. 

_Cas and Dean._

“Double balls!” 

Those two idjits are head over  
heels, halo over wings for each other—hell they’ve been for a long damn time—and how the shit neither of’em figured it out, Bobby will never know. 

Well, more like one knuckleheaded hunter who won’t ADMIT—hells bells, ALLOW— himself to admit how he feels about Cas. 

Bobby is fairly certain, actually 100% positive, Cas knows how Cas feels about Dean. 

It’s just Dean then. Stubborn, stubborn, pig-headed, selfless, self-loathing… 

Oh. 

Ooooh. 

It hits Bobby like a ton a bricks: Dean doesn’t think he’s worthy of being loved; therefore the very idea that someone could, in fact, love him, is beyond comprehension. It doesn’t even settle in as a possibility. 

_Fucking God damn you, John!_

Only Dean. Dean who has so much love to give, thinks he is undeserving of the very love he so generously gives away. 

 

Only Dean could make an ‘Angel of the Lord’ fall(more ways ‘en’one) in love with him. 

And only Dean could be completely oblivious about it while at the same time return the feeling wholeheartedly, but not understand it, then berate himself for it, deny it, and end up even more clueless. 

And then suffer needlessly for it. 

How’n’a’hell does the kid not know?! 

Hell, everyone else knows! Heaven and Hell alike! 

_Shit. Hell. Does that mean JOHN KNOWS?!_

_An’if he does…Dean is gunna be ina world a…_

_No way. Even IF John knows, ain’t shit he can do._

_Right?_

_But how’n’a’hell are Cas and Dean the only two who DON’T know._

“IDJITS.” 

The whole damn lot of ‘em. 

 

Bobby rolls his eyes. 

Bobby looks as Cas. 

Bobby rolls his eyes again. 

Fucking Cas. 

Feathered idjit. 

_And be damned if that Halo ain’t look’n'like a lost puppy. An'll bet the house he’s reflectin'ona certain comment about a certain hunners feel'ns ‘bout ‘ im_

Bobby appraises Cas and snorts, amused at the befuddled expression the Angel probably has no idea he’s making. 

Damn feathered fool should jus tell Dean. Lord knows the poor damn kid needs someone to take care of ‘im. That boy needs someone who can demolish his damn high walls and love him unconditionally in the way he needs it. And that is definitely Cas. Damn it all! Dean ain’t even aware of how damned obvious he is when it comes ta how badly he needs Cas. 

 

Bobby huffs as he walks over to the mini bar. 

Castiel only 'hears' Bobby's thought of 'Cas' befuddled expression and how very amusing Bobby finds it', because Bobby is projecting very, very loudly. Stress, Castiel observes, before he finally severs his glare from the hallway, to fix it upon the elder hunter. Castiel, unable to reign in his wrath, bites out an icy, “You find this amusing?”, with an upward inflection of disbelief, instead of the emotionless acknowledgement he had so hoped to portray. _Embarrassing._ Capillaries engorge and color his cheeks 'Annoying Red', ( _Dean's voice._ ), against his will, so Castiel flips the script ( _Dean's voice again._ ), narrowing stormy blues at Bobby’s back, closing the gap between them before Bobby can finish his blink, Castiel imagines, and oh how _that_ thought "amuses" Castiel to no end, as he now stands directly behind Bobby. 

 

To his credit Bobby doesn’t even flinch; he’s far more concerned with seeking out that certain… 

_…perfect…_

_… bottle…_

_… or is decanter of old ass bourbon?_

_Whatever and who the hell cares what the damned thing is called!_

_Ha!_

_There you are!_

Bobby’s fingers deftly dance over crystal until they flush out their query. 

 

Castiel pouts at the distinct LACK of flinch, Castiel had hoped to achieve from Bobby. 

Bobby, knowing Cas as well as he does, is absolutely positive he disappointed the angel when he didn't flinch. _Bet that ruffled yer feathers!_ And so Bobby does what Bobby does best: ( 'Cept for drink and scold his boys a'course), roll his eyes. _Got dang angels!_ 'Course Cas just hasta pop up on his ass. Cue eye roll. 

Bobby rolls his eyes. 

Not one to be deterred when it comes to flushing out his liquid prey, Bobby picks up that elusive bourbon, and removes its top. Holding the amber nectar in his right hand, heavy crystal top in his left, pissy angel on his six, Bobby gazes longingly at the decanters mate: a forlorn tumbler looking for all the world that its waiting patiently for Bobby To Pour! Or not to pour!

 _You and me both._

Bobby pauses to mouth: _Almost there, hunny_ at the now impatient tumbler before addressing said pissy angel on his six without turning around. 

Bobby turns his head ever so slightly toward his right shoulder and bites out, “Hysterical, princess.”

Castiel sighs heavily sensing the sarcasm. He turns his gaze upward, chin sticking out in a pout. “My apologies, Bobby. I… I’m just… beside myself….”

Bobby lays the crystal top down and snorts again. 

_Me too, Cas._ But instead of saying that, Bobby donates the unchick-flick-y version of his thoughts, "No fucking shit." Bobby then pours himself a generous four fingers of… 

Bobby closes his eyes, bringing the tumbler right under his nose. He inhales deeply, nose following the edge of the glass. 

_Oh yeah…_

Bobby may drink cheap as shit hooch, but that don’t mean he ain’t a connoisseur of fine bourbon. No it does not. 

_My favorite…_ Maker’s Mark. _Oldest damn bourbon made still kicking._

The “Connoisseur” gives a silent ‘thank you’ to the Samuels Family on his exhale. 

Comforted now by imbibe, Bobby softens and offers, “I know, Cas.” Bobby opens his eyes and gently places the decanter back from whence it came, following it up with an appreciative taste of his ambrosia. Bobby tips the glass toward his mouth in preparation for yet another taste when he abruptly ceases the motion, suddenly—urgently—feeling the need to tell Cas that yes, Dean does requite Cas’ feelings, “It’s true, ya know.” 

A beat. 

Bobby pokes further. “How Dean feels abo—”

 

Castiel abruptly cuts Bobby off, because Castiel just. Can't. Won't. Can't. Sparring thoughts torture him. _I can’t go there now. I cannot. Too much at stake. Dean's life. Dean's LIFE is at stake and I need to focus. I need to.... I need to not even consider the possibility that Dean could...that Dean...that Dean might very well requite my love_

Castiel cannot, and will not, be distracted by futile hope. _Matter settled._ He begins to address Bobby once again, “I… I am… I will be going to Dean’s room now. I need…”

 _I need... I need Dean. I need to lay on his bed… I… Father help me… I need my human. I need him so badly… How is this even possible? How have I fallen for him? Well I don’t give a flying fucking rats ass how; I just am, damn it!_ Castiel smiles inwardly, amused his inner monologue, along with some conscious thought, continues sounding like Dean. Castiel musings are interrupted by a throat clearing, and he scrambles for purchase on a ledge he had no knowledge of stepping onto, and so he responds stupidly, “…for… for…”

 

“Guidance?” Bobby supplies, his eyebrows going up in that—smirk-sarcastic-gee-ya-think?—kinda way. 

 

“Something like that, yes.” Castiel leaves Bobby with a sad smile in farewell.

 

Bobby rolls his eyes again when he hears Cas' wings flap. Will he ever stop rolling them? 

Not likely with these idjits. 

“Okay then… Let’s have us a chat with Sam then…”Heaving a great sigh Bobby finishes the bourbon in a shot and decides to go in search of the youngest Winchester. 

Bobby barely turns to head off when he pauses. He looks back at the bourbon remembering he never replaced the top. 

_Guess my mind is telling me something._

 

“Better listen then.” He replaces the top, grabs two tumblers, and the bourbon, then heads off to find Sam. 

 

___________________________________

 

“Hello and good morning, Dean! I trust you have slept well?” Rachel struts over to her…

 

Plaything? 

 

Perhaps not. 

 

Pet? 

 

Yes. 

 

Pet.

Yes that will do nicely. 

 

This worthless, pathetic…. filth… abomination— _human_ —stole Castiel from her and ruined her life. 

 

And the lives of her brothers and sisters. 

 

So now it is Rachel’s turn. 

 

It’s her turn to hurt—to _destroy_ —Castiel for all the insurmountable pain he inflicted on their kind. On _her._

 

And there is only one way, one delightful way, to hurt Castiel. 

 

It has been said that a true warrior attacks not the body, but the heart. 

 

Rachel is a true warrior. 

 

Rachel is going to lay waste with angelic wrath the likes of which have never been seen. She is, after all, a woman scorned. 

 

She will lay waste to Castiel by attacking his heart. His soul. 

 

And she will accomplish this by annihilating, in the most profoundly agonizing way possible, The Righteous Man (ha!) Castiel raised from perdition. 

 

Dean. 

 

Winchester. 

 

Her Pet. 

 

She slowly circles Dean, sizing up her prey; lips that elegantly coordinate with her Pet’s blood snake up her face into an icy smirk. 

 

“Oh don’t tell me that the great Dean Winchester passed out from pain!” Rachel’s tone turns mocking and she throws in a pout just for the hell of it. “Awww…. Poor, poor baby. Poor wittle Deanie Weenie. Did a wittle itsy bitsy girl like me hurt the big ol’mean Deanie Weenie wiff a wittle baby peepee? Huh, baby boy?”

Waiting for a reaction without receiving one sets her Grace boiling and she snaps, snarling out, “Well that really won’t do at all!”

Furious, Rachel balls her fists at her sides. She roars savagely and stomps her navy colored, Steve Madden pump clad foot on the concrete floor, snapping the heel clean off. _What are you? A petulant child? No! No I'm not! I'm not!_ Well now she really seems like one with all that inner whining. _Whatever._ Rachel flips her hair back and bends at the knees with a snarl as she snatches her broken heel—broken four inch stiletto heel—up from the concrete. She glares menacingly at the offending heel in her palm until an idea snaps her attention to the real object of her enmity. 

A switch flips as she glowers at Dean, and just like that, Rachel regains her composure. She plucks a wayward strand of ash blonde hair from the lapel of her now immaculate, expertly tailored, navy colored Armani suit. Rachel flicks the discourteous hair away with a sneer before she grabs the bottom of her suit jacket and tugs downward to straighten it out. “There. Much better.”

 

Rachel considers the broken heel in her palm, gaze flicking between the heel and her Pet. Decision made, she maneuvers the heel until the sole is resting in her palm with the remainder of the heel jutting out between her pointer and middle fingers. 

 

With a manic, gleeful grin Rachel backhands Dean, across the wounded left side of his face. 

 

Rachel’s broken heel is now impaled in Dean’s left cheek. 

 

Rachel laughs hysterically at Dean’s beaten face now adorned with her heel. “Oh that’s perfect… absolutely perfect!” 

 

Licking her full lips, Rachel purrs with pleasure as she watches her Pet struggle toward consciousness. Her pupils dilate fully the more she stares at the broken human writhing in agony from such a small thing. 

 

She licks her lips with anticipation, devouring every inch of Dean’s decimated body. 

 

Rachel is suddenly fascinated with the lake of Dean’s blood lapping at her lopsided heels. Without a thought to spare she reverently removes her heels to stand barefoot in her Pet’s blood. 

 

Rachel wiggles her toes and groans sinfully, absolutely reveling in it. 

 

Dean’s head violently whips around and back with the force of Rachel’s backhand. His breath comes out in short pants and hitching gasps with the unbelievable agony of being impaled. 

 

With a heel. 

 

In his already wounded face. 

 

Dean's head hangs low, right eye blinking rapidly before he squeezes it shut tight. 

 

_Fuck…f-fuh-uuughk…huh…huh…hurts…._

_Get a grip, ya pussy! Suck it up!_

 

Dean swallows down a whimper and does just that. 

 

Well, he gives it a good go anyways. 

 

_Craaaaaap. Now, what the so not awesome shit was that?_

 

He attempts to runs his tongue over where the pain originates… 

 

 _The fuck?_

 

Dean can’t close his mouth. 

 

He tries. He really, really tries. 

 

But he can’t. 

 

He just gapes as his jaw spasms and lips tremble. 

 

Blood and saliva steadily run out of his mouth and over his bottom lip forming a long string with every excruciating and hard fought shallow gasp of breath.

 

Dean loses himself trying to find a coherent thought to latch onto. His mind just isn’t working. 

 

At all. 

 

And he can’t understand why he… why he… why everything is foggy one minute and clear the next.

 

He should know why. 

 

Really, he should. 

 

_... fuh… focus…._

_… I’s… I…I… sfff… tooff… tooff…. S’why…. Tuh… tooth!_

_Whaaa…. ‘s’okay… ‘member….now…_

 

The hunter finds lucidity, and runs his tongue over the mess in his cheek; which is exactly what he was trying to do in the first place. 

 

_Missing a couple teeth. Jus’ peachy._

_An… an…_

_… Is that a… a heel?! What in the…._

_What in the fuuuuuck…_

_Jesus!_

 

The haze now dissipates completely unveiling a brutal assault of torment. 

 

His right eye flutters open, stars immediately pricking the edges of his vision. He gasps sharply in pain and volleys an impressive set of expletives (well, at least it sounds like that in his head, though in reality it probably just sounds like an incoherent symphony of gags and choking baby babble) when he feels an intense building of pressure followed by a “pop” behind both his eyes. Bright red accompanied with intense warmth, swarm the already red tinted vision of Dean’s right eye and Dean wastes no time in closing it. He moans in absolute utter agony, spitting out blood, a molar (or two), and more slurred curses alike. 

 

A strong quake of nausea follows the wave of warmth spilling from his eyes and Dean convulses involuntarily at the sensation. 

 

 

Rachel watches rapt. 

 

 

There are times when Dean really and truly fucking hates his five senses. 

 

Those moments when time stands eerily still and quiet. The calm before a thunderstorm on a hot and sticky summer night. 

 

This may not be a thunderstorm, but it is oh so most definitely one of those times, and it is, without a doubt, a storm. 

 

An utterly excruciating, crushing, Category 10, F-fucking-5-billion, decimating, annihilating, fucking goddamn MOTHERFUCKING STORM-OF-THE-CENTURY AGONIZING STORM. 

 

You’d think Dean would be prepared by now, all things considered. 

 

Namely Hell. 

 

_….yeah….okay…sure…._

_Okay… deep breath..._

_And here we go…._

 

Core muscles reluctantly agree with Dean’s urgent deep breath plea. 

 

Or so he thought. 

 

Apparently, the core muscles have deigned it an absolute necessity to inform him that attempting a deep breath, while convulsing, simply because capillaries in his eyes have burst due to a heel impaled in his cheek, and that he is, quite literally, crying tears of blood, is absolutely no reason to twist and shake the way he is. So they now vehemently refuse to ever agree with him again. 

 

Tremendously poor judgment on Dean’s behalf, and how DARE Dean defy the very muscles that help him do EVERYTHING—HELLOOOOOOOO—NOT ONE OF HIS BRIGHTER IDEAS. 

 

Or so they say. 

 

Bastards.

 

Right on cue the meat hook dashes in and happily  
fucks the hole in his side.

 

And it is then when Dean finally, _finally_ snaps wide awake.

 

Wide awake to a throbbing, blindingly white hot pain in his left eye and cheek with torrent of blood pooling in his mouth so fast he gags and heaves out the blood. And of course— _of fucking course!_ —the meat hook gets further in on the action, sadistic bitch that it is, widening its hole on Dean’s torso. 

 

_Get it out! Get it out! Get it out! Now! Nownownownownownownownow! Want out now!!_

 

A new flood of warmth makes its escape, gushing down his hip and groin making him feel like he pissing himself. 

 

And if that doesn’t just send a lovely barrage of very unpleasant thoughts through Dean’s mind. 

 

_Did I ALREADY piss myself? Is that why the concrete is wet?!_

 

A hot tsunami of shame fills the hunter. 

 

 _Wonderfuckingful._

 

Absolutely fucking wonderful. 

 

_Oh hiiiiiii, (wish I was high) excruciating fucking God DAMN AGONY! SO FUCKING GOD DAMN GLAD YOU FUCKING SHOWED UP!_

_FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKSROPSTOPSTOPSTOPHOLYFUCKINGBALLS!!_

_Fuckingwhatthefuckithurtsitthrobs!_

 

The meat hook slides through Dean nearly pulling out with the force of Dean’s writhing body. 

 

_Oh God it feels disgusting! Get it out!_

 

Dean almost gets his wish when the barbed end starts to work its way back in through Dean. 

 

Rachel laughs and uses her power to help the barbed end slowly drag back through Dean, bumping his kidney along the way. Just when she has the hook almost out, she slowly drags it back along its path. 

 

Dean’s scream is that of a wounded animal about to die. 

 

But he won’t be granted as much. 

 

No. He knows he’s going to suffer a great deal. 

 

_Please make it stop!!! Please… peeeese… peeessss….._

 

Dean checks out before he can finish his thought. 

 

Rachel is so fascinated she steps closer to her Pet and inhales. A rush of hot arousal floods her vessel. She feels her nipples harden and moisture in her lace thong. Unconsciously Rachel rubs her thighs together as she revels in her Pet’s sweat and blood. Her pupils are blown wide and she very nearly licks the blood and sweat off her Pet’s face. 

 

Rachel gets a wicked idea. An idea that swells her Grace with wont. Plenty of time for _that_ later. Oh yeeessss. Annnnnd, as it just so happens, Rachel has a couple friends who will be ecstatic for the chance to play with her Pet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit with Rachel and her reaction, arousal, just kinda wrote itself. I'm not quite sure why. Rachel was just stomping her foot around me and making all kinds of noise so that happened. Yeah.
> 
> Fuck I hope I didn't fuck this whole dn thing up.
> 
>  
> 
> OMFG I cannot believe how many times I'm editing this!


	5. You scream and you holler, ‘bout my Chevy Impala; Well I think I'm losing my mind, this time This time I'm losing my mind, that's right.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The explanation chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> Don't worry, plenty of emotional and physical Dean whump. I, I kinda feel bad for hurting him so much.
> 
> I'll make it up to him. Oh yes I damn well will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, man! This fic is a whopper! Holy shit, dude.... I've been working on this chapter along with 6 and 7 and notes and an injury list. Yeah, that's how bad it's gonna be. I need a list to keep track of Dean's wounds. It seems every time I think I'm done and I go back to edit, I add shit, change shit, take shit out.... It's driving me crazy! I write for hours and hours at a time, so don't worry, guys, this is a long one and I will not forget about it.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your awesome support! 
> 
>  
> 
> Tibbins, this one's for you. *fingers crossed* I hope I do it justice.

Nearly three days ago...

 

Dean is happy. Well, happy as one can be nursing four cracked ribs and a bruised kidney. And, oh yeah! His left ankle is swollen and hurts like a bitch. And of course the kidney is the right one and the ribs are on the left side, can’t get ‘em both on one side so he can sleep, oh no, no, no, so, yeah, no rest for the wicked. 

 

Or is it weary? 

 

“Whatever… don’ matter anyway, does it, Baby?” Dean coos to his lady, his beautiful 1967 Chevy Impala—his baby girl. He smiles and reverently rubs her oil pan before, gently of course, slipping a wrench over her drain plug. He applies some force, not much is needed because, hey, it’s an oil drain plug, and if you’re the asshole who DARE uses an impact to tighten—or loosen—it, then you can go right to hell, yes you damn well can because that shit is just stupid. 

 

Once the plug breaks loose Dean unscrews it the rest of the way by hand, letting the fountain of black pour down off his hand and into the drain pan. 

 

Making a face Dean apologizes, “Damn, Baby, I am sooo sorry! I didn’t mean ta let ya get that bad, sweetheart. Too damn much going on… I know, I know, Baby.” Another affectionate rub. “Won’t happen again. Promise.” 

 

While Dean waits for Baby to relieve herself of the old oil, he stretches out languidly, at peace with the fucking world, man. He leaves his right leg straight, the left bent at the knee, perfectly content on his back, on the creeper, right under his girl. 

 

Dean’s injuries try—emphasis on try—to inform him that wrenching is a rather not-so-good idea, but fuck you very much, he doesn’t give a rats ass. His girl needs an oil change—bad. And he is NOT going to let it go any longer. And besides, he needed this. Needed to be under Baby; aside from driving her and just _being_ in her, _—Heh, ‘In her’—_ is the one place Dean feels safe and secure—at peace—which is ironic considering he’s under damn near 4500lbs of steel jacked up high enough to get his fine ass under her. 

 

Does Dean care? 

 

No he sure as shit fucking does not. He loves this. He loves everything about his Baby. He loves the feel of his girl’s grease on his hands, the smell of oil and coolant, the pressure of her throttle as he revs her with his hand, not his foot; He loves the feel of her oil as it coats his hand when he removes her drain plug. 

 

He loves the gloriously beautiful symphony of her lumpy cams; The rumble of her exhaust. 

 

He loves the smell of carb in the morning. 

 

The feel of brake dus—well, okay, definitely not the feel of brake dust ‘cause that shit fucking SUUUUCKS. 

 

“Where was I, Baby? Ahhhh yes….”

 

Dean loves the silky, smooth of gloss black under suds.

 

The way Baby shines like the sun after a long luxurious bath and wax. 

 

He loves the feel of her steering wheel under his fingers. 

 

He really loves the way she kicks her ass end out when he cuts her wheel. 

 

Fucking hell does Dean love the smell of roasting her tires! He loves the thick plume of smoke that billows out around them as they go round and round; Loves the taste of those tiny bits of smoked off rubber that swirl gleefully into the open window to tickle his nose and cling to his face, his lips. 

 

Dean loves it all. 

 

Yes he damn well does. 

 

Dean loves his Baby. 

 

Why does no one get that?

 

Does it matter? 

 

“Fuck no!” He grins proudly and begins to sing and hum and air drum and air guitar, ‘Jesus Built My Hot Rod’, by Ministry, all while under Baby. 

 

Does Dean care that Baby is more muscle than rod? _Heh heh, muscle… rod… muscle rod HAH HAH!_

 

Fuck no! 

 

And anyway, Ministry fucking rocks, man. 

 

So shuddduppp. 

 

“Soon I discovered that this rock thing was true  
Jerry Lee Lewis was the devil  
Jesus was an architect previous to his career as a prophet  
All of a sudden, I found myself in love with the world  
So there was only one thing that I could do  
Was ding a ding dang my dang a long ling long.”

 

Once the last drops of oil cease, Dean affectionately wipes the drain plug hole clean and gently screws the plug back in till its finger tight. _It all sounds so dirty…_ Laughing, he snugs the plug tight with his wrench and sublimely sighs. 

 

Satisfied, Dean wipes his hands clean, well, as clean as he can get ‘em without the almighty awesomeness of GoJo. Dean transfers both wrench and rag to his right hand and reaches for the oil filter with his left, his shirt riding up in the process.

 

Unfortunately for Dean, the muscles that weakly hold his broken ribs in place, shift with his stretch and separate, causing an absolutely excruciating bone-on-bone grind, complete with fresh tearing through healing muscles and old scar tissue. 

 

“Fuck me!! Damn it!! Ooooo fuck that hurts! Sonuvabitch!! Motherfucker!” Dean’s arm shakes violently with the strain, forcing him to lay his wrench and the rag on his exposed belly, unintentionally smearing grease just under his belly button and over the soft line of hair that trails down and under the waistband of his Star Trek boxers. 

 

Just the thought of the USS Starship Enterprise warping through space with Captain Kirk and Bones and Spock and Scotty, help Dean take control over his agony. 

 

He has had a lot of practice at it, ya know. 

 

Curious, Dean tilts his head up slightly to look down at his now grease slicked tummy, (Bruises? What bruises?) and laughs, laying his head back down. “Oops! And owwwwww! Maaaaan! Note to self: Do not stretch. It hurts."

 

More laughter. 

 

“Ahhhh…. As _if_ I give a fuck, Baby. Nope, that’s right, sweetheart, I don’t give two flying fucking shitting rats asses that ya got me all dirty, mama.” 

 

Dean cups his hand to his ear. “What’s that, my big beautiful girl?”

 

“Yuppers! Goddamn right you’re more im-damn-portant than my stupid ribs hurting, and perfect abs getting dirty! Psssh…’snot like it’s MY fault that this awesome Pink Floyd shirt of mine chose to rise up as I was stretching. And I know I most certainly did not instruct said shirt to so remain.” 

 

Of course it is _slightly_ his fault about his ribs. 

 

“Well, no, it’s actually _Sammy’s_ fault for not knowing how to shoot a damn shotgun, then looking down at said shotgun like it contains the answer to the freakin’ universe, then frowning at it, then lost in it for Christsakes, leaving, yours truly, to, once again, save his Moose ass!”

 

Dean reaches for the oil filter again, ignoring any and all protesting from his war wounds. He starts to unscrew it, humming ‘Ramble On’, when he hears Sammy walk in the garage.

 

More like stomps. Moose stomps. Dean thinks, amused.

 

Dean can’t help a little giggle at ‘Moose’. 

 

And just to rile his little bro up… 

 

Because, well, it _is_ a big brothers job to tease their younger sibling after all. It’s a fact. Look it up, bitches. 

 

_Hot diggity damn! I am on a roll today! Pow! Puh-pow-pow-pow! And, yup, I totally am air boxing under Baby. Why, you ask? And fuck you oh so much if you didn’t, but, yes, why? Because I am ON GODDAMN POINT TODAY, yes I am, motherfuckers! I’m fucking rocking, tuuuuuh day, man!_

_Getting laid would be a fucking fantastic way to top it all off. Cruisin’ in Baby, pick up a smokin'hot chick, lay on the charm…. Oh yeah… Mmmm… raven hair out on a silk pillow, big electric baby blues looking up at me like I’m a god..._

 

Sam's entrance long forgotten, Dean loses himself in his thoughts and groans helplessly with need. 

 

Dean is fucking hard. 

 

Like rock. 

 

Fucking. 

 

Hard. 

 

 

_...Wait….what?…No way… I…just wait a damn minute! Raven hair? Blue eyes? Where the FUCK did that come from?!_

 

“Damn it!” Dean groans again. He aches with need so fucking bad. It's been a long, _long_ time since anyone touched him. 

 

He moans and rolls his hips, cursing furiously when he realizes he’s groping himself and rubbing his dick through his jeans. 

 

Yanking his hand away like his dick is on fire, he thunks his head against the crawler and whimpers, willing his hard on to go away and leave him alone. 

 

Apparently Little Dean really DOES have a mind of his own because he is really fucking happy to continue obliging the images Big Dean's traitorous mind is providing: Raven goddamn hair and gorgeous bright blue eyes. 

 

“Damn it, fuck me! Stop!” He grinds his palms into his eyes. 

 

_Back away, man. Nope. Sooooo not going there! Ever. Never ever._

_Maybe? Fuck, fuck, fuck! I want him. What?! Oh no, no, no... And oh I am soooo burying THAT teeny, tiny, minute, small, super, super, super teensy weensy thought (hope?) No! Maybe. No! Stop. Stop, stop, stop! Being buried! I can't hear yooooou because you're buried waaaaay down DEEP AS FUCK! Damn it! Damn it to hell!_

_Where was I? Oh yeah, willing this bullshit to stop._

 

Dean hears Sam huff, _Shit! How much did Sammy hear? Shit shit shit!_ and flushes bright red with the awesome mix of shame and embarrassment. _Good news though! It made my dick run and hide!_

_Oh thank you God!_

_Now, where was I again? Oh yeeeaaaah…. Moose tracks! Time to rile The Moose! Hahaha haha!_

 

“PMSing again, Sammy-boy?” Dean playfully teases.  
. 

What? He _has_ to. It’s his job, damn it! ‘Sides, Sammy’ll know he’s just messin’ around anyway because everyone knows that when Dean’s working on his Baby, Dean is in a damn fine good mood. 

 

And Dean loves to share good moods. 

 

Yes he goddamn fucking well does. 

 

 

Sam pinches the bridge of his with his pointer finger and thumb, eyes screwed tight with exasperation. Typical Dean. On any other day Sam would be glad his brother is happy and Sam would merely roll his eyes, call Dean a jerk, laugh and move on. But not today. Today, Sam is fuming. Irate. Soooo irate! Well, to be honest, this has been coming since day one. It really and truly has. The trigger today was how Dean constantly has zero regard for his own welfare. It’s exhausting for Sam. It really is. Two. _Why am I counting? I don't count things. I don't make lists._ The final straw was the pleasantly unexpected phone call from Amelia, which, of course, Dean answered. _And of course Dean thought it would be amusing to answer MY phone and inform Amelia that I was ‘stuck in Purgatory and couldn’t come to the phone’. Dean, the child that he is snickered and led me on a chase for the phone. Which I did snatch from his giggling ass eventually._ Of course Dean did not like the result of Sam’s conversation, that goes without saying. But the hunt. Ugh! So what Sam’s shotgun jammed! He had it under control! And of course, once again, Dean thought that ‘Sammy’ couldn’t handle it. The spirit wasn’t even that close. Sam had the situation—his situation— under control. But of freakin’ course his stupid brother refused to see that and Sam’s juvenile brother did his patented Stupid-typical-Dean-Piss-Off-Sam-Who-Contrary-To-Dean’s-Moronic-Belief-That-Sam-Is-Still-A-Kid-In-Need-Of-Protecting and dove into Sam, knocking them to the ground. The force of it had caused the barrel to slash deep into Dean’s left side leaving Dean with a four inch gash in need of sutures and probably a couple cracked ribs. Sam’s pretty sure Dean has a concussion as well. Not like Dean would fucking say anything about it! Oh, wait, yeah, yeah he would: His patented “I’m fine, Sammy. Are you okay?” Sammy. Ugh! He _LOATHES_ that!  
Replaying the incident in his mind has served only to substantiate the numerous allegations against his brother. Sam narrows his eyes at Dean’s half hidden form. Fucking idiot. 

 

 

Dean senses the tension rolling in tangible fucking— _goddammit_ —waves. And seriously, Dean can fucking see the smoke Sammy has fucking steaming out of his ears without actually having to see it, because Dean just _knows,_ so, in typical Dean-in-a-damn-fine-good-ass-mood fashion, he tries to lighten things up with a cheerful, “’Sup, Bitch?”

 

 

Sam is good and pissed off now! Damn it to hell! Only Dean can get under Sam’s skin and push every button he has! Fucking Dean and his stupid, juvenile behavior! And Sam is just in a vile mood at Dean’s good mood. Sam glares hotly at the Impala. _Fuck I hate that piece of shit too…_

 

Sam runs his fingers through his hair. Of course! Of. Fucking. Course. Dean is in a good mood! Why wouldn’t he be? Not like he just got his ASS handed to him on a _normal for them salt and burn!_

Asshole! (And let’s not forget about the phone call on top of it!) So, yeah, Dean. Got. His. Ass. Handed. Yeah. HANDED TO HIM. BY DEAN’S OWN STUPIDITY! And, surprise, surprise, Sam’s stupid ass brother lied about being hurt. To Sam. Again. And now that fucking bastard is happily working on that damned car. Injured. Like, suture requiring injured and Dean is under the damn car. Sam has had more than enough of Dean’s bullshit. Sam is more than furious now. Sam is _done._ Sam is soooooo done. With all of it. Every last damn bit of it. Fucking bastard brother first and foremost! Ugh! Sam wants out so badly! He’s so sick and tired of Dean. Of Dean’s music. Of Dean’s car. Of Dean’s stupid abandonment issues. Of Dean’s inability to see Sam as his own man. To trust his judgment. ENOUGH! He can’t anymore. And then there’s the angel! How could Sam forget?! How is it that Sam’s sinful, ungrateful, non-praying, hateful, ATHEISTIC, SELFISH brother gets his very own guardian angel when Sam is the devout one and gets nada?!? And on top of all that HEAVEN SENT CAS AND COMPANY TO HELL TO RETRIEVE DEAN!! And on tippy top of THAT, Cas literally and figuratively, FELL FOR DEAN. DEAN!! DEAN OF ALL PEOPLE! How the hell is any of that fair to Sam?! And the one chance Sam has for normalcy, Dean ruins. Dean just skips back from Purgatory, a year later, with a new bestie, for that matter, who just happens to be a fucking vampire. A monster. Hypocrite! But that’s okay because it’s Dean. But when Sam with a ‘monster’, and yeah, okay, Sam did fuck up with that one, but STILL! Hypocrite. Dean just loves to ruin Sam’s life every chance he gets. It’s not enough that Dean has to be in charge CONSTANTLY, he has to run Sam’s entire life as well. Dean, his damn brother has been controlling Sam since Sam was six months old. Sam’s life has really has been fucked up by Dean. Sam foolishly thought that when Dean was in Purgatory that Sam, go figure, would be free to live SAM’S life. Well, he did for a while and it was perfect. 

 

Until it wasn’t. 

 

Deep down Sam knows his reasoning isn’t fair, but he really doesn’t give a shit right now.

 

So perfect life ruined. 

 

Again. Like Flagstaff. And Stanford. 

 

Perfect life. Until Dean came back. Sam keeps coming back to that. Amelia is the first woman since _Jess,_ that Sam wants to marry. Dean messed up Sam’s life with Jess. Sam had plans. Plans that DID NOT involve his dad or his brother.  
Once again, Dean ruined Sam’s happiness. Apparently Sam’s childhood, Flagstaff, and Stanford wasn’t enough to quench Dean’s thirst for Sam’s misery, Dean selfishly showed up and stole his life with Amelia. 

 

Sam glares at Dean’s bent knee and before Sam realizes it, he kicks Dean’s left ankle out, none too nicely either, holding in a laugh at how awkwardly Dean’s leg flies out. “Ya know, Dean, you’re a real pain in my ass.”

 

 

“Ow! What th—SONUVABITCH!!” BANG! _Damn it!_ Dean instinctively sits up, well, _attempts_ to, but smacks his forehead into Baby’s chassis instead when Sam kicks his leg out and Jesus fucking Christ is Sam wearing fucking steel toed boots?! Fuck fuck fuck his ankle feels broken! “Damn it, man, that fucking hurt, dude! What the fuck?! What’s your fucking problem….S-Saaaaammmm….SaaMMMY… what…are you….” Dean grapples for a hold on Baby, as Sam pulls on his legs, but Dean’s wounds prevent any success, and, damn it, Sammy probably, no, _definitely_ knows that and is using it to his advantage. _Fuck me…_

 

 

Sam pulls Dean out from under the Impala by way of Dean’s legs, the creeper Dean is laying on, helping Sam out perfectly. Well, that and Dean’s weakened from his injuries. Otherwise it would be a lot harder to get Dean out from under his car. 

 

 

“Asshole!” Dean huffs out at his Sasquatch/Moose hybrid brother. “Fuck, dude! Chill!” Dean laughs thinking Sammy will stop yanking on him, but no, the giraffe is one determined sonuvabitch. His brother keeps tugging and finally pulls Dean out from under Baby, until the L'Oreal Hair Princess, _Yeah… I like that. Ha! Hahaha! ‘L’Oreal Hair Princess!_ has Dean effectively trapped between two giant Moose legs. 

Dean looks up at Sam from between those two gigantic legs and raises an eyebrow. Once again, Dean tries to placate Gigantor with humor. 

“Uh, listen Sam, I know you read a lot of fanfic about us, and we both know there is no ‘Wincest, like ever, ”

 

 _Shudder and gross! I feel so sick and objectified and used now._

“... but given the way YOU trapped me, is making me think you have carnal intentions toward me, and, well,” Dean gestures between himself and Moose Knuckle. “ it’s, uh, it’s, it’s unfortunately and very, very, very uncomfortably, leading me down the very, very wrong and nasty path toward me thinking you want me to suck your dick, and there is just absolutely no way in Hell that’s happening. Like ever, Sammy.” 

Dean snickers, his jovial mood firmly in place despite the painful kick Sam landed on Dean’s ankle, and then the subsequent: ‘Hi, head, this is chassis!’ Dean continues to look up at his brother, giving Sam a wide grin, thoroughly amused at the pissy bitch face Sam is making, and holds up his hand in a ‘help-me-up-man’ gesture. 

 

Apparently, Gigantor really is PMSing because he slaps Dean’s hand away instead. So didn’t get the memo then, huh, Sammy. 

 

“Dude? What the fuck has your panties in a bunch? Wait… did you just call me a pain in your ass?” Dean scrunches his face in confusion trying to figure out what he did. Or didn’t do…? 

 

Yup, Dean’s at a loss. He rubs his forehead grimacing, and then looks hopefully up at his, not so little, little brother for some sort of explanation.

 

 

Sam shakes his head and glares down at his brother, not amused at all with Dean’s behavior. He takes in Dean’s expression: green eyes once sparkling with mischief and mirth, dissipate, leaving confusion and hurt in their wake. Unfortunately, it has no bearing on Sam other than really pissing him off. Sam reaches down, grabs Dean by his shirt and yanks him up.

 

Dean squeaks. _What in the fuck?_ Suddenly Dean is overwhelmed with vivid flashbacks. 

His body goes rigid and his breath hitches. Long years ago, right at the very beginning when Meg had his dad, and Sam grabbed him, just like this; Sam sharing _that_ look with their dad. And it’s the _exact_ same look dad got before dad would beat the FUCK outta Dean. It terrified Dean with dad. Just as it terrified Dean back then with Sam. Visions of Sam torturing him in The Pit plague him. 

 

The Pit. 

 

Dean shakes in sheer terror, lost. His eyes are blown wide with panic and fill with tears before bursting to stream down his face alongside a heart wrenching sob of helplessness and fear. 

 

“No! No please! L-uh-let me go! Please… please no more! Please…..” Broken pleas rapid fire from Dean. 

 

Dean blinks and stares at Sam when no harm befalls him. He swallow a few times and licks his lips, trying to wet his parched throat and dry lips. 

 

Dean crawls then slams back into reality going limp and submissive in Sam’s grip. Dean has never really stopped having the nightmares about Hell. Shit, he's always suffered from nightmares. Lately though.... Been gettin' worse. And now he's getting them during the damn day! Well, okay, it's happened before, if he's honest with himself. _It happens a lot, actually, come to think of it._ Dean shivers. 

 

_Please don’t Sammy. Please don’t be like dad. And, please, PLEASE don’t be the Sam I saw in HELL. Please don't. Please._

 

 

Sam’s upper lip twitches and he really can’t help the surge of power he feels, or the wicked grin he gives Dean as he watches green eyes go wide with terror, from past or present or both. Dean is weak. Broken. Dean is a scared child in a man’s body. And Sam knows he should pity Dean… he should help him, but he can’t. Sam has to remain angry to do what needs to be done for Sam. And, oh God, Sam cannot believe Dean is STILL whining over Hell! Sam feels Dean go limp. He watches Dean become submissive; Behavior so unlike his brother. And for some reason Sam can’t explain, he’s thrilled by it. 

 

Dean watches Sam watch him. 

 

 _Sam is…. Sam…Sam is smiling. At my fear. Oh, Sammy…. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did, but I am so sorry you hate me this much._

 

The wrench that was so peacefully resting on Dean’s stomach, plummets to the garage floor with a peal both brothers acknowledge as a boxing bell announcing the start of a round.

 

Appropriate, Sam thinks. 

 

Dean thinks so too, but Sam would never ever, even remotely consider that thought to be in a realm of thought possible for Dean. _Real fucking nice._

 

“Yes, Dean. Pain in my ass! And more! So much more that it’s too much!” Sam snarls, “You’re too much!” For some reason the innocent expressions of fear, hurt, confusion, and guilt on Dean’s face along with Dean’s attempt to hide his wince and hiss of pain from Sam have the opposite effect on Sam again. Dean just had to empty a tanker of fuel on Sam’s fire. As always. Sam suppresses the powerful urge to beat Dean’s face in and throw him through the windshield of the Impala. 

 

 

Dean is right and truly scared now. He’s scared for Sam. He’s scared for himself. 

 

_Gotta get’m to snap outta it._

 

“Jeez, Sammy!” Dean flashes his trademark grin, this time pleadingly using humor to diffuse the bomb that is his brother. “Lemme guess,” Dean waggles his brows, “Wait… wait… you ran outta tampons and hate the pads. I get it. Well,” Dean carefully and with great subtlety, or so he thinks, tries to pry off Sasquatch’s hands from his shirt.

 

_Too many damn holes in it as it is!_

_Too close. Too much touching. Shut up!_

 

“Well, heh, I get it, I do, I, I think I do…though personally—” Dean stalls out at the look Sam punishes him with. 

 

Sam looks down at Dean’s exposed torso and growls. And now Sam feels bad for wanting to hurt Dean. _This! This is the problem! I can’t stop the conflicting, warring emotions! Dean’s a nasty shade of purple, black, and bluish all along his left side, jeez…_ Sam then looks at the poor attempt of one handed suturing on the gash. And now that guilt is gone, long gone, replaced by righteous rage again. _The fool never let’s on when he’s hurt and he’s fucking RECKLESS. I have had so much more than enough. I’m so done with this shit._

 

“Dean, you are a fucking idiot!” Dean hurt yet AGAIN from a hunt and hides it from Sam. God! _Why doesn’t he trust me?!_ Dean treats him like such a child! Sam can’t take it anymore. He can’t. Sam needs to be away from this repetitive game. The drama that orbits his brother. Sam needs a normal life. God help him he really does. 

 

Sam needs that life to be away from Dean. Needs to cut the cord. Amelia wants him back and he wants Amelia back. Sam misses her terribly and Sam is absolutely finished with having to sacrifice his desires, his needs just to appease Dean’s ridiculous need to not be alone. Sam’s leaving. 

 

His bags are packed. 

 

“I want to be with Amelia. I am _going_ to be with her. I can’t do it, Dean. I can’t live between both worlds. I can’t deal with your shit, your hypocrisy, your lack of trust, your ridiculous abandonment issues, your walls…. I’m done, man. You have to let me go. Even Amelia agrees. You’re not Dad, Dean. Or Mom.” Sam releases Dean, disgusted and exhausted, letting him drop to the floor. 

 

 

“Gah!” Ooooof! _Damn, man! Now my ass hurts! Shit. SHIT. Sammy is serious as all hell. What was your first clue, genius?_

_He wants to leave me. Needs to leave me…no…. Please… please let this be a hallucination…. Please don’t go, Sammy._

 

Dean stares at his shirt. He can’t look at Sam yet. Not while his chest is constricting with fear and hurt and guilt. _Please, Sammy…. Don’t leave me. Please don’t hurt me any more than you already are. I… I can’t t-take it. I’m so freak’n messed….up... Please, man….. ‘You’re selfish.’ His brain screams. Am I? I…I am…._

 

It takes Dean a few attempts to swallow, choke, actually, would be a better way of putting it, the fucking huge lump of pain that burned its way up from his chest in the worst bout of emotional indigestion he’s felt in a while. Dean twists the bottom of his shirt for lack of anything better to do with his hands. He’s hurt. And keeping his tears at bay is real fucking damn difficult. But he does. Yes he damn well does. Sammy ain’t leaving. Nuh uhn. Not happening. Not on his watch. Not again. And certainly not for that backstabbing bitch… 

 

Anger rises up alongside the pain. …“Amelia? The chick with the dog and dead/not dead ex-husband? Amelia who couldn’t decide between you and her ex? Are you fucking kidding me, Sammy?” 

 

_Sam said. Mom. He brings mom into it._

_Low blow, kiddo._

_All low blows._

 

“And don’t you dare bring mom into this, Sammy. Or dad for that matter… ”

 

_Still not gonna look at you, Sam. I can’t._

 

Another lump of anguish complete with a choked out whimper and swell of tears blurring Dean’s vision. He looks off to the side, head still hanging, still submissive. 

 

 

Sam shakes his head. How much more pathetic can Dean be?! Is he… crying?! “For fucks sake, Dean, get a grip! You’re crying for godsakes!” He watches Dean flinch and look away from his words. He’s actually… unbelievable. “Jesus, Dean!! It’s true! How are you THIS stupid?!” Sam watches as Dean flinches again, this time far more violently. Sam continues to watch as Dean breathing hitches then picks up in speed. It’s blatantly obvious to Sam that Dean is trying to staunch the flow of hurt and tears and sobs. Good lord. Yeah, that hurt Dean. Big time. He looks like a kicked puppy. 

No. 

Dean looks like a scared child. 

_Damn it._

Sam runs both hands through his hair, leaving his hands at the back of his neck to cups his hands there. He brings his elbows forward and shakes his head. _Unreal._ He washes his face with his hands, finger tips resting on his chin and tips his head back.

 

Looking for guidance, receiving none, Sam glares at his pathetic brother, unable to help the venom of his words. “YOU ARE NOT MY MOTHER. YOU ARE NOT MY FATHER. YOU ARE MY BROTHER. And a shitty one at that! I am not yours to control! I am my own man, Dean. MAN! M. A. N. How many times do I have to tell you before it gets through your thick skull and reaches your small Neanderthal brain! You don’t trust me. You don’t trust my judgment. You NEVER tell me the truth! You never let me in. You…you, damn it, Dean! You just…. You just fuck everything up for me! I hate to say it, but I’m better off without you! Nothing you claim to have done has been FOR ME. It’s only FOR YOU. You brought me back from the dead how many times?! Not for me though. For YOU. Because you’re so pathetic you can’t stand to be alone!”

 

 

_Christ, Sammy. Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ, Sam. You’re killing me, man. After all I… I tried so hard to give you a good life. I gave all that I had. Everything I’ve ever done has been for you. God…. The things I’ve done for you…. Things I let happen…The beatings from dad  
… the…. It…. I…. Meant nothing….how can he believe that? I just… what do I do? I failed. I…failed. I always fail. I’m so stupid… Dad was right. Sammy is right. I failed. I’m a failure. I fuck everything up. Too stupid to get it right._

 

Dean _hurts_ right down to the bottom of his endlessly generous, loving, _good, broken_ heart and tortured, pure soul.

 

He completely shatters, nearly unable to speak. “Thanks, Sammy.” Dean hangs his head even lower and runs his hand over his face before he tries to stand. He grabs hold of Baby’s front end and gingerly pushes himself up with a sob he tries to pass off as a grunt.

 

Sam watches Dean wrestle with himself. Dean is pathetic. Dean looks pathetic. As if Sam can’t see Dean’s tears and pitiful attempts to hide them. Dean’s emotions and attempts to hide them are an open book Sam has read cover to cover and memorized. Right now Dean is blaming himself; Good, Sam thinks. He should. Dean fucked Sam’s life up. Dean is just like dad. 

 

 

Dean can’t bring himself to meet Sam’s eyes yet, so in a bid for time, cradling his left side, he bends to pick up his fallen wrench and rag. It takes a moment before Dean can straighten, and when he does, it’s with a sharp hiss and nausea. 

 

_Damn it hurts! It all hurts. Don’t look at Sammy. I can’t look at him yet._

 

Dean cleans his wrench and places it on the side of the engine bay, before cleaning his oiled, engine-greased hands. He shakes his head, tosses the rag onto his tool chest and puts his wrench back in place among its friends, awarding himself extra time to school his features into his trademark smirk-to-cover-hurt on his greased stained face. 

 

_Before I break down like a balling little bitch!_

 

Damn it all to FUCKING HELL Dean is way too close to breaking down here. He swallows hard a few times to get himself under control, and when Dean finally, _finally_ looks up at his much taller younger brother, the brother Dean loves and was told to protect above all others, Dean included; The brother he must keep safe for the rest of his miserable life or die trying (which, ya know, he HAS); When Dean finally looks, what he sees stabs him right through his broken, worthless soul.

 

_I can’t take much more of this…._

 

Sammy… Sam; ‘Cause this sure as shit ain’t Sammy, is looking down his self-righteous nose at Dean like Dean is some stupid, inferior, unintelligent, worthless, pathetic, uncomprehending bug that needs squashing, more like crush and be done with, Dean’s self-loathing helpfully interrupts. Sam’s had it alright all along. That much Dean knows without a doubt. The way _his brother_ is looking at him puts voice to everything Dean knows about himself. 

 

And boy oh boy, God fucking DAMN IT does it shatter Dean’s heart and soul right there and then. He feels fragile and vulnerable and he despises it. All Dean has ever done was for and to protect his baby brother. Sure, Sammy—Sam— ain’t a baby anymore, but he’s still Dean’s younger brother, and Dean loves his brother yes he does and so that command—order—from their father November 2, 1983 to “protect your brother” is something so ingrained in Dean that he just can’t stand down, he just, he just….he just… 

Can’t. 

_Hell, I dunno know how to stop._

 

Dean’s entire has life has been an endless mantra: 

 

‘Keep Sammy safe at all costs, Dean.'

 

‘Protect your brother, Dean!’ 

 

‘Sammy comes first, Dean, you know that!’

 

‘No one, ya got that, not even you, Dean, is more important than Sam’s welfare and well-being.’

 

‘You take care’a him, Ace. You know what happens when you don’t. If there is EVER another fucking failure like you made with that striga, so help me, Dean, I will bury you.’

 

‘YOUR WATCH, DEAN! YOUR. FUCKING. WATCH. YOU STUPID, DUMB…. DAMN IT, DEAN! SAM IS THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS TO ME! HOW COULD YOU FUCK THIS UP?! YOUR FUCKING WATCH!’

 

'Don’t you make me have to show you just how important my Sammy is, Dean!’

 

‘Sammy is YOUR responsibility. Yours and yours alone. My responsibility is to my Mary. You fuck it up, Dean, and my boy— my baby—boy, gets hurt in even the slightest, Dean, blame lands on YOU and YOU alone, and YOU will take the consequences of YOUR FAILURE and YOUR inability to keep Your BABY brother safe!’

 

‘You are a FAILURE, Dean. Ya understand me, son. A failure. You had one job, Dean. One. Job. Keep Sammy safe. And you fucking failed. He ran off on YOUR watch. Twice. That’s right, Stanford is your fault too. I can’t even look at you. You fucking disgust me. You are not my son. My son ran off. Sammy ran because you fucked up. Because you’re fucking so stupid, Dean…. This is all on you. Now strip. NOW! GO AHEAD HESITATE. I WANT YOU TO MAKE IT WORSE! YOU WILL UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU HAVE DONE! YOU ARE GUNNA BE PUNISHED FOR. YOUR ACTIONS. YOU WILL FACE THE CONSEQUENCES OF YOUR Actions, AND WE AIN’T GUNNA STOP UNTIL YOU UNDERSTAND, STUPID. YOU GOT THAT, SMARTASS? AND YOU WILL DAMN SURE NOT FUCKING FAIL THIS FAMILY AGAIN!! IF YOU DO, SO HELP ME... Even after I die, Dean, you don’t ever fail my sweet Sammy. I will come back and rain hell on your scrawny, pale white ass, you understand me? GOOD.’ 

 

And Dean had understood.

He had understood all ten long hours of it. 

His dad made sure of it too. 

For the entire time until he disappeared. 

 

Dean, so utterly lost, sways, shaking with the onslaught of agonizing memories, and leans on Baby. 

 

 

“Really, Dean.” Sam shakes his head and looks at his brother. “Look at yourself! Just take a good look at yourself, Dean. You’re pathetic. You can’t even stand up! Hell, Dean, you couldn’t even stand up to dad. You just had to be the perfect little soldier, obeying every single command. Do you even have thoughts of your own? Have you ever? You can’t function without someone around. You’re a mess. You can’t do anything alone. And ya, know what? You never will. You just don’t get it Dean. You have NO idea what I’ve been through, Dean.” Sam shakes his head again, his anger—his frustration—escalating to new heights. 

 

Sam pitches his nose, his eyes scrunched tight. Deep breathe, Sam. You got this. “No idea. No idea at all.”

 

 

Dean stares dumbfounded at Sam, his mouth gaping open in disbelief. Everything—everything—Dean has ever done has been for Sam. 

“Sammy… I… I did what I did because I wanted to.” Tears flow easy and free, Dean's voice breaking along with his heart. 

 

"I did it for you, Sammy. Not me. I… I couldn’ let ya die, man…” Sniffle. “I just couldn’t. You had so muh….much to offer the world. So much to do…. I coudn’ deny you that.” He chokes on a whimper, his voice little. “Hell, Sammy, I can’t deny ya anythin’. All I ever wanted was y-you to be…” Swallow. “…happy and safe. Hav’….have a life. An’a good one at that.” 

 

_I gave it all for you, Sammy. Everythin’ I had. My sacrifices… Pfft… C’mon, Princess, stop the pity party. Sam suffered. Not me. It’s my fault and mine alone._

 

Dean’s crying now. “I…I…”

 

He doesn’t care. 

 

He doesn’t care that much about anything anymore. 

 

Not like anyone would know. 

 

Dean's head is spinning, his reality shifting. 

 

 

“Spit it out already, Dean. I haven’t got all day.”

 

 _Damn, Sammy….why’a hurt’n me so bad? Why ya wanna?_ “I…I….if….do what ya gotta, Sammy. Take care’a you for once.”

 

“Damn it, Dean! It’s Sam! Fucking Sam! Not Sammy! Not any variation in between!” Sam pinches his nose again. “Christ you’re dumb.”

 

Unable to fight the lump in his throat this time, Dean’s voice cracks like he’s thirteen again and he pleads, “Sammy…”, Dean stretches out his arm, reaching for Sam, Dean’s lifeline… Dean’s whole reason for existing…

 

… And Sam turns his back on Dean. 

 

Somewhere, in the back of Dean’s mind, somewhere tucked far, far away, hidden, buried so deep, for he had to partition his mind to do what needed to be done, he had no choice being the man he was—the man he needed—to be, who he would become; Somewhere, that part, the sixteen year old Dean who flourished away from his family at Sonny’s, is screaming and pounding on walls so high, fists bleeding, screaming out: ‘NOOO NOOO NOOO IT’S NOT FAIR! WE COULD HAVE BEEN MORE! WE WERE MEANT FOR MORE! IT’S NOT FAIR! ALL WE’VE EVER DONE IS TAKE CARE OF EVERYONE ELSE! STRANGERS! AND ALL AT OUR EXPENSE!! LET ME OUT! WE DESERVE BETTER AND YOU KNOW IT!! IT’S NOT FAIR!! IT’S NOT OUR FAULT!LET ME OUT! HOW MUCH MORE DO WE HAVE TO GIVE?!’ 

 

The movement reaching for Sam, pulls on the torn and healing muscles attached to Dean’s ribs and cut. The voice, Dean’s voice from behind the wall: ‘Sam’s fault! We dove in to protect HIM AGAIN because SAM wasn’t paying attention!! That’s why we’re hurt!’ He shuts his eyes and covers his ears against the pounding and screaming. 

 

 _I’m fucking hyperventilating! Gotta calm down. Deep breath. Ah! Bad idea. Not deep breath. Breathe._

 

Dean wills and breathes himself back. Removing his hands from his ears and opening his eyes, he looks hopefully at Sam’s back, only to have that hope snuffed out by despair. He looks at his boots. “Sammy?” 

 

Sam turns to look at his brother, pity blossoming in his chest at Dean’s heartfelt plea. He runs long fingers through his long locks of hair. “Dean,” 

 

Hearing Sam turn, Dean looks up at his brother, spark gone from red-rimmed, watery green eyes. “Sammy…” Dean reaches for his brother once again. 

 

That one word: Sammy. Despite it being a heartfelt plea, it infuriates Sam and encourages him to remember all the jokes and teasing and the hunt and Amelia and Jess and… Sammy! IT’S SAM! 

 

Sam Winchester SNAPS. He swats Dean’s out-stretched arm out of the way with such violent force, it turns Dean completely around. 

 

Dean gasps in surprise as Sam spins him nauseatingly around from the momentum of the swat. He lands facing Baby, his hands pressed to the front of her engine bay. He hisses and gasps sharply in pain, his grip on Baby the only thing keeping him from crashing to the ground. Dean leans into Baby seeking comfort, receiving it. He regains his composure, what’s left of it anyway. He’s hurting and it ain’t just physical. He takes a deep breath, inhaling his baby, turns around and hangs his head. Dean can’t meet his brothers eyes for fear of what he’ll find. Instead he turns his eyes, once again, down at his grease tinted boots, watching pathetically as a few stray tears gleefully dance to their death in a splat on the toe of his boot. “S-Sam….S-Sammy… please…” _Could I sound any more pathetic?_

 

“God, Dean, could you sound any more pathetic? Look at yourself. You’re crying for your brother. It’s not natural, man. I can’t be near you. Ever again. I’m done.”

 

Dean shivers. He feels clammy. His heart rate skyrockets. His chest tightens and squeezes painfully. Dean loses control over emotions he barely had in check to begin with. He shoulda known it was coming. No one stays. They all leave him. Especially his brother. Any minute his place in this world is going to tilt on its axis. He won’t be able to function… His breathing turns into uncontrollable hitching, and gasping, embarrassingly, for air he can’t get. Sam’s leaving him.  
For good this time. _I failed._

Dean can’t stop shaking. _No air… need air… Shit shit shit… nooo no no no no not now…. Not now. Not in front of Sam…. But it’s happening._

And he knows what it is. Dean is super familiar, intimate really, with it. 

 

Dean is having a full blown panic attack. He barely manages a curt nod and a rough, cracking, “… ‘Kay then…I’ll…uh…yeah…” 

 

Dean needs to get away as quick as he can before the imminent break down. He cannot show anymore weakness in front of his baby brother. Dean pats Baby and pushes off her with a limp and whimper. _Damn it! I do not whimper! Well, I guess I do, don’t I idea. Gotta leave. Gotta get out of here. Now. Run. I need to run. Hafta… hafta get away. Go go go go. Now._ Sucking up the complaints from his ribs, slice, and ankle, Dean manages a brisk walk through the garage, down the hall to the central hub of the bunker, adrenaline now in control. Dean takes the stairs two at a time and bursts out of the bunker, slamming the door. He leans back against the door, gasping frantically for air. His knees start to buckle. 

 

_Suck it up, buttercup!_

_Breathe. Gotta breathe._

 

“Ah! DAMN! That was so not a good idea. Run up the stairs, Dean. It’ll be fun they said.” He hates rib pain. It’s the worst. It really is.

 

Dean is bending in half, holding his side with his right arm. He places his left hand on his thigh, unable to straighten yet. “Yeah. Not fun. Ahhh….. Suck it up! Suck it up!” He tries a laugh that comes out as more of a sob with a pained grimace attached, before he straightens up, trying his damnedest to stop the panic from taking over. 

 

Not working. 

 

Dean pants and then shivers. “Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Oh God. Oh God. I’m gunna hurl…. Fuck. Fuck.” Unable to help it, he heaves and lurches forward, emptying his stomach. 

 

He drops to knees with sharp pinpricks of blinding white static burning his vision. 

 

_From pain._

 

“….fffuhfffuck….” Dean is on his hands and knees. “Ffffwwwppp,” He spits out thick ropes of mucus, that seem to compete with the congestion that runs out of his nose. “Ugh… c’mn, Dean….geh gripffs…” 

 

More spit. 

 

Snot rocket. 

 

“Mus be’sum’ight…” He shakes his head and whimpers, trying to find a reason to move. His arms shake and buckle. He falls onto his face. 

 

Dean sobs quietly into the gravel. 

 

_I can’t stay here. What if Sammy comes out this way? Fuck…. Sammy…._

 

Panic assaults him and he moves. 

 

His eyes wildly seek out salvation. 

 

Dean flees. Something he hasn’t done since he was a kid. 

 

He runs. Ankle and ribs be damned to fucking hell. 

 

He runs. 

 

And runs. 

 

And runs. 

 

Dean’s ankle is pissed. 

 

_Just great. My fucking ankle is having a panic attack too._

 

Dean’s ankle gives up and dies a slow death as it shatters. 

 

He falls. 

 

He screams. 

 

And that’s it. That’s all it takes for Dean to finally, completely, meltdown; to shatter just like his ankle. He smacks, into the forest carpet he had no idea of running to, hard on his stomach. 

 

Dean screams in anger, in pain, betrayal, pity, hurt….sorrow… misery… God he hurts so bad…. Dean is absolutely wounded in body, in soul, in heart.…. 

 

His chest heaves as he sobs and screams and curses, fists and hands grabbing the earth for purchase. 

 

_Too much. Too much. Too much. I got nothin’ left. Too much. Too much._

 

Dean shakes and gasps, crushing his face into the leaf strewn ground, beyond caring. He just _hurts._ He hurts everywhere in every way. He’s so tired.

 

So, so tired. 

 

Dean doesn’t even bother to check his surroundings. He doesn’t care; the hunter silenced by that tucked away child that is Dean. The child finally granted escape. Finally able to grieve. To let go and just cry. Cry for all that Dean has lost, has sacrificed, has been through. 

 

He’s numbly aware of curling into himself, of the sun setting, of the forest detritus pressing painfully into his left side, as he sobs and weeps; as he grieves, lost and tired and hurting.

 

 _Alone._

 

He dry heaves a few times and rolls himself half up in preparation for vomiting again, only this time it’s just bile and spit. Dean’s strength, the little that is left, finally succumbs to his pleas to just, “….g’way!” leave him in a rush. He collapses, cradling his side, the heaving and vomiting taking a heavy, heavy toll. 

 

Dean just lays there, save for pulling himself into a little ball to be as small as possible with arms curled around his side protectively. He doesn’t care how he looks or the hot tears that stream down his face. He gasps for air, gulping every bit of it as he sobs. Dean's diaphragm heaves and spasms, hurting something bad. He sobs and sobs; And he doesn't care. 

 

His worst fear coming true… 

 

Sam is leaving. 

 

His Sammy, his baby brother, who Dean gave his life for is leaving him because Dean is stupid and a failure and worthless. Sam hates him and is leaving. 

 

Again. 

 

He should be proud. 

 

He always wanted Sammy to be happy and have his own life away from hunting… 

 

But…. 

 

But…. He just…. 

 

Just…. 

 

Dean just thought Sam would want Dean to be apart of it…. 

 

_What did I do wrong? Why? Why? Why do I always have to be alone? Why do I always fuck everything up?!!_

 

“Why?!” 

 

“What’s wrong with me?” 

 

“What’s so wrong with me?” Dean’s whispering now. He’s so gone… So far retreated in his mind he doesn’t hear the flap of wings or two female voices. 

 

“That’s him?” Laughter. “Seriously?” 

 

“Oh yes. That’s the thorn in our sides.” Rachel sneers. 

 

“Time to go, Dean.” Rachel presses two elegantly manicured fingers to Dean’s head. 

 

 

The moonlit forest stills; Silently grieving for The Righteous Man who gave all he had and more for his family, and all mankind, without thought for himself. 

 

This Righteous Man who gets absolutely nothing in return for all his sacrifices. 

 

Save suffering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow.... Damn... I need to go back and edit the fuck outta this! Lol I apologize for all the grammatical errors. I'll fix it. Just not tonight. It's 0314 and I'm tired. All my love!


	6. “Mean old levee taught me to weep and moan…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets caught after his fight with Sam. 
> 
> And, man, oh, man...
> 
> His fine ass is in a whole lotta hurt. 
> 
> Curious as to just how Dean got all those injuries?
> 
> Wanna know a bunch of secrets Dean's been keepin'?
> 
> Rachel knows.
> 
> And she is gonna pull it out of him mercilessly.
> 
> She is quite good at bringing out the inner child.
> 
> CHAPTER 6
> 
> TOLD IN THREE PARTS
> 
> ACT I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am horrendously sorry for the long wait,guys. I truly hope this makes up for it. Chapter 6 has turned into almost 13K words, so I HAD to break it up. I hope it works.
> 
>  
> 
> I pray, it works. 
> 
> This chapter has given me nothing but an endless butt-load of trouble. My muses have been all over running havok everywhere! I have scenes with Cas and Dean and fluff and tons of hurt/comfort for future chapters....Beginnings of their first kiss and so forth...I have Bobby and Sam having a heart to heart...I have a furious Cas....I have Flagstaff and Stanford....I have brother stuffs....I have all kinds of notes and research....TONS AND TONS of medical information I spent hours searching and understanding....Jeez....
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> 
> Trust me when I say this a loooong and fat one...heee heee long and fat....
> 
>  
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> awesome
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>  
> 
> Anyway, this fic is here to stay and grow, so I truly hope you guys love what I'm doing here. 
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>  
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> REMINDER:
> 
> MIND THE TAGS
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> PLEASE.
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> 
> I will be heartbroken if I trigger any of you.
> 
>  
> 
> All my love!

Chapter 6

ACT I

 

 

Nearly three days ago.

 

Rachel dumps Dean onto the wet concrete floor of the facility she designed specifically for him. She flings her hands outwards and down, ridding herself of Dean’s filth. _Disgusting human._ Grooming her suit, she spares a glance at her partner-in-crime, who, apparently is aghast at the entire situation. Hysterical.. “Listen, hunny, you get what you pay for.” Her tone swivels to amusing, “Oh, I see, you…you really thought,” Unbelievable, this one, she thinks snidely, “… what? That we were just going to tie him up and leave him here to rot? And then you’d go on your merry little way? Oh no, no, no… tisk, tisk.” She scolds. “I have plans…he’s going to suff—oh stop, don’t give me that look!” 

 

Sideways eye roll. _Ugh! What a stupid bitch._ “Idiot here,” She digs the tip of her pump into Dean’s right kidney, “won’t wake until I want him to. He won’t feel anything, okay, well that’s a lie, he’s going to feel quite a great deal, but I won’t kill him….yet. I DO plan on keeping him alive for quite a while. Okay, okay! Fine!” She admits, “I’m going to torture him and hold him on the cusp of life and death. Besides, have you forgotten WHY we’re here to begin with?”

 

 

Her companion, now subdued, shakes her head no.

 

“That’s what I thought.” Humans… 

 

“Now that we have THAT settled, would you care for the tour of our quaint little facility?” 

 

Aghast nods, acquiescent. 

 

“Good.” _Not like she has a choice anyway! I’ll drag her skinny ass around regardless of whether she wants it or not!_

 

Rachel casts her eyes around her masterpiece awfully smug with her accomplishment. “It’s absolutely perfect, don’t you think?” Grinning arrogantly, eyes alight with the promise of vengeance, she backs up and spreads her arms wide before she spins around, enthusiasm palpable as she begins her soliloquy:

 

“Thirty by thirty concrete and metal structure; climate controlled at a balmy fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit. 15 foot ceiling height complete,” Rachel gestures upward without pause, continuing her stroll, “with several meat hooks attached to retractable and locking chains, which I can and _will_ pull down to make Dean ever so nostalgic! These lovely chained hooks run along the ceiling rails, so that, I…” she reaches up, pulling a hook down and locking it in place. Grabbing hold of the chain, she continues proudly, “…so I….I’ll just demonstrate,” Running backwards then forward, and holding the chain with one hand, she leaps effortlessly into the air, landing perfectly on her tip toe, on the meat hook, using the momentum to swing herself around the room. “Just picture the imbecile here, impaled anywhere I so choose…Oooo! Impaled in multiple spots! Ha! Just imagine,” She spins round laughing, “Imagine what fun we’ll have pushing an impaled Dean all around the room like a child on a swing! Ahhh…it warms my Grace just thinking of it.” With a graceful leap off the hook, Rachel glides effortlessly toward her companion, continuing the tour without missing a beat. 

“Now then…as I was saying…Concrete floor kept wet by perforated pipes running in a grid pattern releasing frigid water at my whim. Like say… now?” Rachel snaps her fingers and the pipes sluice out their payload in the grid section underneath Dean. Much to Rachel’s delight, Dean unconsciously shivers as his clothes eagerly quench their thirst. Humming happily, she skips onward. “Each section can operate individually, allowing for control in specific target areas, as I have just demonstrated.  
One of the very best parts, my personal favorite,” Dramatically Rachel presents, “Floor to ceiling mirrors! We wouldn’t want Dean to miss anything we do to him, would we now?” Out of the corner of her eye, via the mirrors, Rachel catches her ‘partner’ place her hand on her chest, and mouth the word ‘We?’ in disbelief. Rachel smirks, _Oh yes, my child, we. You will be leaving your mark on Dean Winchester as well._

 

“And oh! Cameras!” Rachel speaks on her inhales. “Cameras that are constantly recording! I’m going to give Castiel a copy very soon!” She exhales giddily, “See, I know Castiel,” She turns round walking backwards, childlike glee sparkling maniacally in her eyes, lilting her voice. “and I know that once he realizes his precious charge is missing, Castiel will flap his ass over to that silly little Bunker of theirs ripping his feathers out with worry! And then when he sees the recording… Eeee!” She squeals, beside herself with anticipation.

 

“Anyway….” Rachel begins anew, “Here we have Holy Oil in a large circular burner, ignitable, once again, on my whim around Dean, and then another one in front of Dean’s circle, so that when Castiel arrives it will leave him with just enough room to reach out, yet unable to offer comfort through touch for his beloved. Despicable, isn’t it? If the need should arise, I shall summon Castiel and he will appear exactly where I want him and then he will suffer. He will he suffer unimaginably watching helplessly as I carve off every piece of his charge.”

 

Rachel purses her lips and taps her chin in thought. 

 

“Oh! How could I forget?!” She exclaims and dashes over to two braziers, standing proudly between them with her arms draped lovingly around them as if they are her best friends. “May I present to you, Fire and Brimstone!” _Ever so appropriate considering all the human references to it in their little story book, annnd, we wouldn’t Dean to forget the smell of Hell—especially when I burn his own flesh!_ “We are going to break Dean Winchester. We will shatter Dean Winchester psychologically, emotionally, physically. We will make him relive Hell.” _But it will be me…I will make him relive his own personal hells—the patriarchal abuse, the rapes—anything and everything I can do to cause him irrevocable harm I will_ “ By the breaking of Dean Winchester, my dear, sweet child, you’ve nothing left to stand in your way; And I break the one who broke me: Castiel.” 

“But… I… I don’t understand… is-isn’t he an Angel too? A-and… I… I mean… is… is he…” 

Rachel nods impatiently to her incompetent companion, twirling her hand in a circle toward the stuttering woman, “Yes, yes…. Spit it out already!” 

“Well, why is, that?” She points at the sickly looking man just laying there, shaking on the wet ground… ,em.He has very prominent freckles…..why didn’t I notice…. Probably because he’s very pale...because he’s hur—nevermind. Why am I even thinking about him?,/em > She shakes her head to free her thoughts. “Why is he that… Why is he so important to Castle?” 

“Castiel; His name is Castiel. Say it with me, Cas—tee—EL, Castiel, not Castle, not Casteel or Castel, CASTIEL! C—A—S—T—I—E—L. Got it?” 

“Y-Yes. Cas—Castiel.” 

“Very good,” Rachel’s tone is laden with thinly veiled sarcasm, “Now, why is Dean so important to Castiel? Well, you insipid creature, had you have permitted me to FINISH, without INTERRUPTION, you would know that the one—the only—thing more precious to Castiel than even his Grace, is Dean Winchester. The glorious Dean Winchester!” She opens her arms with a flourish toward Dean, presenting him with sardonic reverence, “The man Castiel raised from Perdition; Castiel’s treasure, his Righteous Man with the poor, hopeless, mutilated soul, and derelict vessel Castiel painstakingly re-created to absolute perfection! The fragile soul Castiel protected and lovingly nurtured whole again with his Grace. The soul now woven together with his Grace as one, creating a Profound Bond and leaving a designation of possession on his arm and very soul!” She finishes dramatically with a kick to Dean’s rib. “That, my ignorant child, is why Dean is so exceedingly important to Castiel.” 

<

The woman swallows slowly ,permitting herself time to comprehend Rachel’s explanation. “Re-created? Like, actually brought back to life-life? Truly alive? And then…what? A bond? So... wait….they’re what? Married by this bond? And… in love? They’re gay?” 

Rachel rolls her eyes. “How fucking stupid are you? Yes! Alive, as in ALIVE. We Angels can heal. And in Castiel’s case…never mind…” Oh Rachel refuses to acknowledge the strength of Castiel’s Grace. Especially where Shithead Winchester is concerned. “Did you say gay?” Such simple minds these humans. “Gay is… ugh, it’s such a human term, thing.” Ridiculous to assign such crude labels to a Soul-Grace connection. Humans and their labels. “It’s beyond your puny labeling, beyond sexual orientation, beyond coitus… vastly more powerful than marriage; Marriage can, after all, be dissolved, whereas a Profound Bond, cannot. Marriage pales in comparison. Human and Angel bonding…. It’s disgusting. And of course—OF COURSE—because it involves Castiel and their ‘love’… ”, She makes a gagging gesture, “… ‘Prophecy.’” Both words spit out like excrement. “However repulsive that may be, it does happen to work in our favor because Dean here will flip out over it.” Snorts. “Ladies man Dean Winchester falling in love with a MAN! Straighter than straight Dean Winchester. In love. With. A. Man!” Booming with laughter she continues, “A man! And an angel at that! Can you imagine what Daddy would say?! Would DO?!!” A sigh borne of content, she finishes her thought in private. And soon Dean will as well. 

“What… do you mean? I thought Dean and Castiel… I don’t understand. And his father? Rachel, I’m so lost.” 

Rachel scrutinizes the woman. _Unbelievable._ “Are you serious? You really don’t know? You know nothing about Dean? Wow.” Oh this just keeps getting better and better! _Wait till I tell Dean this little tidbit!_ She clasps her hands together and grins. “Well than, allow me to explain. Dean here,” She kicks the aforementioned man in his lower back, laughing as his back bends in a perfect bow. “Ahhh…Dean is terrified to admit, let alone even acknowledge the fact, to himself that he is attracted to—” 

The woman interrupts, “I’m sorry, but how do you know… how CAN you know what he thinks?” 

Interrupting again! Rachel calmly walks around the trembling man at her feet to stand behind the naïve woman and press against her. Rachel gently curves her hands around the humans petite waist and so slowly glides her hands up until she reaches the swell of the woman’s breasts. Her lips coil upwards and she rolls her hips, grinding against her ‘friends’ ass, earning a throaty little gasp of pleasure in return. Smirking, she gives those perky little breasts a squeeze, and this time her reward is a wanton moan and exposed neck. Her smirk turns ravenous, claiming the offering with a bite. 

“Uhnn, R-Rachel….” Oh God…. _What am I doing? This isn’t me…. But… oh… it does feel good_

“Interrupting is a very bad habit of yours,” Rachel nips her way up and suckles her friend’s earlobe, drawing out a needy whimper. “I… I’m…oooh…. I’m soooooo oooh oh, sorry, Rachel…” She’s writhing hedonistically, unable to control herself. Rachel has the bitch right where she wants her. _Stupid, stupid bitch. Interrupt me? Oh no, no, no. Time to teach this whore a lesson._ She brutally squeezes the tender flesh in her hands and bites down hard on the hedonist’s earlobe, growling with a syrupy lilt, “Mind your tongue or lose it,” satisfaction pregnant in her Grace as her sadism pulls a startled yelp from the woman. She exchanges breasts for shoulders, and turns the woman around to face her. “Such a lecherous little whore, aren’t you?” Rachel sneers and pushes the bitch backwards hard, right into Dean. 

The woman trips over the unconscious hunter with a gasp, her arms flailing for purchase as she falls. She lands hard on her ass next to him, the sting cementing her shame over her debauchery not a moment ago. She wipes the tears from her eyes, and rubs her throbbing breasts, unable to get up just yet, mortification burning hot in her veins. Her jeans begin to soak through and she shivers despite the flush to her cheeks. Unbidden her eyes fall to the man beside her. Tremors are reeking havoc on his body;From being cold or in pain, maybe both. It’s clear though, blatantly, that he is in misery and suffering. And yet…she can’t stop herself from ogling him. _How can I?_ So she doesn’t and continues to leer. His threadbare t-shirt is soaked and see-through, clinging to him like a second skin. She can perfectly make out well —really well—defined muscles; Perfect abs leading to delicious hips. She follows the curve of his hip down and over to the trail of soft blonde hair she really wants to take a stroll down. It’s mesmerizing ….the way those muscles flex, jump, and twitch….his squirming… _All because of me… I… want to… touch…_ He’s wet and soft and silky. She blushes with traitorous thoughts, realizing too late that her hand has strayed to the man’s pelvis and much, MUCH to her shock, she discovers that she has undone the zipper on his jeans and pulled the sodden jeans—and boxers!—down a little to expose that perfect hip, and the beginnings of the treasure at the end of the trail of hair. She didn’t just expose, she’s TOUCHING! em>What is wrong with me?!! She snatches her hand away and jumps to stand up as quick as she can. 

 

 

Rachel watches the lewd display and holds in her laugh not wanting to spoil the moment. Oh this is going to be soooo much fun!! She pouts when the woman stops touching, then laughs as the woman jumps up. Rachel claps her hands. “Bravo! You have made me so proud, my little Whore! Shall I finish now? Unless you want to see more of him? He’s is deliciously pretty, isn’t he?” She smirks. 

 

 

“Very pretty…” The woman bites her bottom lip, trying so hard to pull her gaze and thoughts away from the man’s dick, _I bet it’s huge. And thick… and abs, and hip. Abs. Love trail. That line…._ She whimpers. 

 

 

 _Unbelievable._ Rachel smacks the human across her face. “Pay attention! You asked about Dean’s father and what he has to do with anything,yes?” Nod. “Good. Now, Dean’s father is the poster child for homophobia. Use your imagination for that one, you sniveling idiot. You CAN manage that, correct?”

 

“Ow!” She rubs her cheek,nodding; attention is now solely focused on Rachel. “Y-Yeah…I…I can.”

 

“Now, I know because I looked deep down inside him. Is that basic enough for you to wrap your head around?” The stupid bitch nods. “Dean wants Castiel. I’ll explain in your vernacular. Dean wants his Angel to bend him over and fuck the shit out of him. And I am more than certain Castiel will oblige him. If Castiel even knows how to ‘do it’. Who knows, Castiel is full of surprises! Dean wants to fuck his Angel. He’s had some very, very vivid wet dreams about Castiel. But, alas, Dean won’t admit it. It scares him to have feelings about a man. He’s all about his ‘Busty Asian Beauties’. Swears he’s all heterosexual. The stupid prick has virtually no idea that he’s in love with, what you humans would call, Castiel’s soul, the ‘man’ part is irrelevant. Dean makes it widely known he’s straighter than an arrow. Now, the more one professes to be something or not to be something, they are. And dear old Daddy Winchester is the one who is actually straight. Poor baby here,” Another kick from the angel and a hiss from Dean. “tries so hard to emulate his daddy. He wanted to be Daddy’s favorite so badly, but his Daddy had only one favorite: little Sammy Winchester. Oh how Daddy loved his little Sammy. Dean was nothing to John. Wait, no, Dean was a painful reminder of John’s dead wife, Mommy Winchester, Mary. Same blonde hair. Same emerald eyes. Same dotting of freckles. Daddy beat Dean. A lot. Daddy was a drunk. Mm Mmm, a very bad drunk, and Dean, well, Dean bore the brunt relentlessly. Dean also got some drunk affections from Daddy as well. I have to dig deeper for those memories; Dean has them buried, very well hidden. So there you have it.”

 

 

The woman plays with her necklace, trying to wrap her head around it all. Rachel mentioned something about Prophecy bringing them together…but…they’re men…Not that it matters to her,but the Bible says that God is against it...but then, but why? Why would it be okay for one and not all. She shakes her head, completely and utterly confused. “Prophecy? As in The Bible?” 

 

Rachel simply can’t help herself. She snickers and roars with laughter, placing her hand on the insipid creature’s shoulder as she leans forward with the other woman’s hysterical equating. “No,” Snort. “No, not really.” Snort, snort. “Ooooh…. That was hysterical.” Rachel exhales with a contented sigh and rights herself. She pauses, using her middle finger to gently wipe away her tears of laughter, without smearing her mascara. “Hunny, no. Your… ‘Bible’, is just a story book. This….” She gestures over Dean. “….idiocy is from an ancient scroll.”

 

Rachel is met with confusion.

 

“Oh for…” Rachel rolls her eyes before reciting the text:

 

“ ‘And so it is written naught shall come  
to pass, until such time one of pure Soul,  
and one of pure Grace, unbeknownst  
have sought its mate, immense the  
calling of Soul to Grace, Grace to Soul,  
none shall put asunder this union, and  
henceforth a Profound Bond of Grace  
and Soul everlasting.’ 

Blah, blah, blah…In other words, Soulmates.” Truth be told, Rachel thought that particular ancient scroll to be absolute and utter nonsense. She wasn’t alone in that belief either. 

_I mean, come on, an Angel. And a human. Together. In love. Soulmates? Nonsense. Who even came up with that crap?! But of course, because it’s Castiel, it would have happened._

 

Repugnant, is what it is.

 

However…

…Rachel has had many conversations with Castiel. Most, to her infinite distaste, were centered around Castiel whining about Dean and their Bond, and whether or not he should tell Dean what they truly are; what had happened. It was through that ghastly ordeal, that Rachel found out how Castiel shields almost all of himself from Dean, and why he does it. Not that she cared about the why, because, big surprise, Castiel does it out of fear of hurting Dean. Of bombarding Dean with such a deeply intimate connection. A connection where Dean would be able to feel all of Castiel’s thoughts and emotions. Oh poor baby! And vice versa. But, because Castiel is just soooo caring and so protective and so worried about his wittle baby, that of course Castiel keeps some of their bond open on his side so he can feel Dean, however remotely. And because of THAT, Rachel can crack it open.

 

Over a fully open and exposed bond, Dean’s raw, unadulterated feelings, thoughts, and emotions would transfer to Castiel regardless of whether or not Dean wants them to. 

 

And then with Castiel receiving the full brunt of Dean’s emotions, both will be overwhelmed and distracted. Absolutely perfect. Armed with all this delicious knowledge, Rachel had then done her homework on the notorious Dean Winchester. Formed a plan. Made the necessary preparations. All was ready. Rachel just needed the opportunity.

 

It wasn’t that long after that Rachel had heard the prayers of her companion,and then every last detail fell into place. 

 

Perfectly.

 

 

The other woman in the room, cautiously observes Rachel. When she’s fairly certain Rachel is finished, with what she assumes is musing, she clears her throat into the silence.

 

 

Rachel swivels her attention toward the sound and raise an eyebrow in irritation.

 

 

“I understand now, Rachel.”

 

 

“About damn time.” Rachel’s attention hones back to her prize catch, who has now instinctively curled into himself on his right side, shivering violently, his clothes completing the metamorphosis to sponge. 

 

 

Dean gasps as the frigid water and temperature soak into him, startling and dragging him, albeit slowly, toward consciousness. He shakes and shivers, teeth clattering together. He doesn’t feel good and waking up just isn’t on his list of fun things to do at the moment. 

 

 

“The mood is set, my weak little ant!” Rachel looks down at a completely uncooperative Dean; The fact he is incapable of responding of little import to her tantrum. “It has a name, idiot.” She huffs out, bored. Rachel examines her fingernails and gives Dean’s kidney a nudge. 

 

And another nudge. 

 

 

Dean groans and squirms slightly in distress.

 

Rachel laughs, looking down her nose at Dean. “Ambiance. I am pretty sure you have no idea how it is even spelled, let alone what it means, do you, Neanderthal?” Walking around Dean considering, “Well then allow me to assist you,” she can’t even stifle a snicker. “Ambiance is all about the character and atmosphere of a place. For instance, it is my desire for this,” Rachel extends her arm, palm upward, and grandly sweeps it around, gesturing to the room, “to remind you of Hell; hence the brimstone filled brazier. Specially made. Just. For. You. Dean.” Rachel venomously spits the hunters designation, accentuating the last four words with sadistic kicks to Dean’s ribs, kidney, head, and stomach. Each kick earning her an excruciating cry of pain, a painful “SONOVABITCH!!”, a grunt, and a heaving gasp, respectively. 

 

Guffawing, Rachel squats down beside Dean’s head, observing curiously. “Don’t worry, moron, I won’t light them yet. I won’t even permit you to see them yet. See how nice I am?” She backhands his stomach, hard, eliciting a sharp hiss and another agonized whimper. Then a “CUNTMOTHERFUCKER!” 

 

The human is already injured. And returning to consciousness. _He’s A LOT stronger than I had imagined!_

 

Even better.

 

She slaps him even harder this time on his injured left side. Dean gasps and tries to pull away from where the pain is coming from, but he has no such luck. Rachel, of course, laughs, finding no end of amusement at his unaware struggling. 

 

The monkey is having trouble breathing.

 

Adorable. 

 

A flick of her wrist and out comes her Angel Blade. Using the tip, Rachel lifts up Dean’s sodden shirt, exposing dark purple—black—bruising, indicative of deep tissue trauma. Her eyes twinkle at the cause of this gorgeous bruising: a particularly nasty, beautiful laceration extending from Dean’s sternum down his left side and across his five lower ribs, curling toward his back. Rachel palpitates Dean’s ribs along the suture line, humming merrily to his gasping, his groaning, to his agonized whimpers, and occasional, half conscious, death threats her ministrations reap. To her immense pleasure, she discovers all five of Dean’s lower ribs are broken. “Ha! Ha ha ha! Oh, Dean… Dean, Dean, Dean…however _did_ that happen?”

 

Laughing and singing, she traces the tip of her blade over the hunter’s terribly poor attempt at suturing “We’ll just have to fix that later, baby.” Her giddy singing merry-go-rounds to purring once her blade seduces the piercing keen of a child in absolute terror, from way, way, way down deep in Dean’s psyche, out. “Awwww…are you a scared wittle baby boy? Does my big knife scare you when I touch you like that, Dean-O? ” Rapt with this change in behavior, she does it again, but this time she slips her hand down his boxers and roughly grabs his dick, squeezing it tight. _He is absolutely terrified!_ Dean writhes and bucks desperately against her grip, wailing like a seven year old. Pleading as a twelve year old for her to please stop. _Perfect…_ She watches sweat bead along his hairline and run down his forehead into a brow furrowed with agony and terror before moving on to puddle in his long, long eyelashes. Tears burst from Dean’s eyes as he continues to beg, whimper, and squirm for her to stop. “N-Nooooo! Pwease no more, Chevvy! I be g-good! Promise!” She laughs good and hard now. “Oh no, Dean-O, Chevvy knows you are a very bad boy!” Just for fun she twists Dean’s dick in her palm while absently twisting and digging her blade in his rib cage. _I’m going to have to find out who this ‘Chevvy’ is…_

“NOOOOOO!!!! Please….please….i-it s-s-s-sttttuh uh hurts from be-be-be-fuhfore….” Rachel snickers watching Dean squirm and shake as he relives childhood horrors. She has an idea. 

 

And a wicked one at that. “Stop or I’ll do it to Sammy instead!”

 

Complete and utter silent obedience. “Good boy, Dean-O.”

 

_Delicious._

 

Rachel has not forgotten about her audience, either. 

 

Rachel scratches her nails on Dean’s dick hard enough to draw blood as she purrs into his ear. “So girly… so, so, soooo girly, Dean. Such a pretty ‘man’. Did your daddy and his friends think so too, Dean-O? Did they touch you in special ways and special places when he was black-out drunk because you look like your mommy? His Mary? Big Bad Daddy John have his way with his wittle girl soldier? Did Daddy’s friends enjoy their playtime when Daddy left you all alone because he hates you?” Rachel gets exactly what she wants: the same keen of utter despair and terror, the hopeless mewling of an abandoned, terrified child. 

“Awww do I scare you, little boy? Does it scare you what I know? Tuch tuch Tuch, Dean…We will have a nice long chat about all that later. Especially what those nasty boys did to you the night your baby brother Sammy abandoned you for Stanford. And oooooh! We absolutely cannot forget about Flagstaff either, can we? You know, Dean, it seems to me that Sammy gets you in trouble an awful lot. It’s because he hates you more than anything. Why do you think he runs away all the time? Away from YOU, Dean. YOU.” Much to her endless delight, Dean soundlessly sobs, his soul projecting a profound hurt and a long ago acceptance of that truth. He whimpers, scared and small, “N-Noo… please…..no….” Dean’s eyes suddenly snap open wild, panicked, completely unaware of where he is, who he’s with... Oh he’s good and terrified now, Rachel thinks as she laughs at Dean’s fear- _Fear I am giving him!_ -and his inability to distinguish reality from dream, dream from memory, memory from reality. 

“Oh yes, yes, Dee,” She coos softly and picks right back up, “And then what happened, baby boy?What happened when Sammy left and Daddy came home? Daddy found you and he didn’t like it one bit, did he? But not in the way you thought, did he. No, no, nooo, Dean-O, he was very angry that his ‘son’ was in an orgy, not the gang rape that it really was, huh? Poor, poor, poor wittle Dean. Hated by Daddy because you look like mommy. Poor wittle Dean Winchester, emotionally constipated because Daddy beat you every time you showed emotion. Told you how real men don’t cry no matter what. How real men don’t speak about faggot-ass feelings. Daddy liked to beat you, didn’t he… and he wasn’t wrong! You deserved it, Dean. It’s because you’re worthless. You’re a fag,Dean. Let’s face it, Dean, you’re a failure, you’re useless, you’re worthless and you’re waaaay too sensitive. You’re a girl,Dean. You never have been able to keep little Sammy safe because you’re a little faggot ass princess who sobs himself at night and sucks his thumb. Well, don’t you worry your pretty little head, Ace,” Rachel scolds, immensely amused, deliberately drawing out the ‘hiss’ in Ace. “because you are going to remember our little ‘chat’ here. And do you know why? No? Because I want to make you cry. But first…"

 

Rachel swings her gaze up to meet that of her companion and grins nastily, her gaze never straying even as she leans forward, speaking in Dean’s ear. “…I want a taste… just like Daddy and all those naughty, naughty boys.” 

 

 

This time though, the woman can’t meet Rachel’s eyes.

 

 

Dean shakes his head ‘NO’ letting out a pitiful, hopeless cry.

 

 

 

Amelia can only stare in horror at the man writhing in distress. _What have I done?_  



	7. "So,So You Think You Can Tell Heaven From Hell, Blue Skies From Pain"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean
> 
> Fights
> 
> Back.
> 
> And gets FUCKING whumped for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ********MASSIVE MASSIVE GRAPHIC SCENES OF TORTURE********
> 
> *********GENITAL TORTURE*********
> 
> EXTREMELY DESCRIPTIVE
> 
> GRATUITOUS VIOLENCE, EXPLETIVES, TORTURE
> 
> NUDITY
> 
> GROSS BODILY HARM
> 
> MENTIONS OF PAST CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE
> 
> MENTIONS OF PAST RAPE
> 
> THIS CHAPTER WILL PROBABLY CAUSE TRIGGERS
> 
> PLEASE,PLEASE,PLEASE, BECAUSE I LOVE YOU ALL, MIND THE TAGS AND MY WORDS BECAUSE I SO DO NOT WANT ANY OF YOU HURTING AND/OR TRIGGERED.
> 
> THIS IS HEAVY DUTY , GUYS AND IT AIN'T GETTING BETTER FOR A WHILE.
> 
> BUT IT WILL GET BETTER AND THE COMFORT I WILL HEAP UPON DEAN WILL BE A BALM TO HIS SOUL. I WILL HEAL.
> 
> BUT IN THE MEANTIME.....

CHAPTER 6.5

 

ACT II

 

NEARLY 3 DAYS AGO

 

 

Rachel is elated. _I’m already breaking him! He’s actually sniveling. He’s so, so frightened. So filled with terror and I’ve barely gotten started_. She leans in even closer, their noses very nearly touching, not wanting to miss a thing as she maliciously grabs Dean’s balls. She digs her nails in as she squeezes the hunters delicate manhood. “Aw, does that hurt-” Her taunts are cut short as Dean bucks and kicks out. “Whoa, boy!” Laughing at her toy’s unexpected reaction, Rachel tightens her hold. “You are just full of surprises!” Her nails break through the thin skin of Dean’s balls, drawing blood, and her toy’s reaction is exquisite: Dean bucks and kicks out with such violent force his boots take flight, and she loves it! Rachel hums serenely, cradling her angry little plaything, amused to no end at his antics. She’s addicted to it, and so it is with great pleasure she finds herself humming loudly and cruelly twisting the nail of her thumb into the opening of Dean’s urethra. Delightfully her toy arches his back over her arm, those luscious lips of his parting in a silent scream, the agony of her scratching thumbnail propelling Dean over the edge: He’s pushing sodden socks off and digging now bare feet on the wet concrete hard enough to scuff his skin off, in a desperate, futile attempt at escape. 

 

 

 

PAIN! 

SCREAMING! Really, really fucking LOUD as FUCK screaming. And it’s giving Dean a goddamn migraine(on top of a fucking goddamn migraine). But it won’t stop. Nope. Nope. Nope. No stopping here. Oh. Damn it. He’s screaming. He can’t ever catch a break. And someone is screaming, see LOUD as FUCK screaming, in Dean’s mind as well. DAMN IT!! The screaming is insisting that he, most certainly, is NOT a kid. That he’s not back there; Back there getting touched where he absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, in no how, fucking never, NEVER EVER EVER wanted to be touched in that way. It’s not that disgusting old man, with the huge, calloused, scary strong paws wrapped around his 7 and 12 year old cock and balls. ‘S’not him. It’s not him. It is not. HIM. It’s a …a… It’s a woman! A woman with really long ass fucking finger nails, that really fucking HURTHURTHURTHURTHURT like a sonuvabitch!!! _That are on-IN!-holy shit! His dick! And…AH! AH! Oh! Oh! Oh! Ahhhh…ahhh….oh God! Oh fuck….oh fuck it hurts! This bitch is fucking hurtn’ my balls! An’my dick! Jesus fucking …Jesus….Fuck…. Ugh…oooh Ima kill this bitch! Wake up! It’s hard…hurt…Get up, Dean!_

Rachel is rather enjoying Dean’s biological and psychological responses. Sweat is raining from her captive’s scalp and down his face. The Hunter is squirming. _Good_ Gasping. _Better_ That flippant mouth of his is working, but no sound is forthcoming. Small miracles... _Oh, Dean, what a wonderful toy you are for me. You are just so much fun to play with!_ “I’ll be nice now, Princess. I’ll stop fondling you here…” Giving Dean’s scrotum one last pat, she slithers her hand downward, pulling out a few hairs and scratching his taint just for fun, on the way to her prize: his anus. “…and play with this instead. See how nice I am?” With great pleasure, Rachel violently forces three, perfectly French Manicured, fingers through Dean’s very tight, very unprepared anus and into his rectum. She indulges herself; Pushing further inside Dean, she curls her fingers, pushing and digging them hard against the sensitive, tender flesh inside Dean. 

_Oooooooh shiiIIIIITTT I’M UP!! I’m fuckin’ wide awake and I wanna cry…AND SNAP THIS CUNTS NECK!!!_ Dean goes rigid, thighs quivering from the strain. His hand gropes blindly for the offending intruder, wanting it out. 

NOW. 

WANT. 

OUT. 

RIGHT THE FUCK NOOOOOW!!!!! 

Dean’s entire body is shaking in excruciating pain. A sharp, high pitch, breathless yelp of pain, fights its way through clenched and grinding teeth. He wants to pass out. Escape. But this bitch won’t leave him leave alone…..Pain won’t leave him…. _Please…can ya just g’way an’ leave me alone? Jus’ for a while?_

He’s torn, 

_Just like the inside of my ass!_

Torn between wanting to rip out the thing in his ass, and killing it, or falling into oblivion. Yeah, he really wants to fall into oblivion. This shit fucking hurts! 

Rachel gouges a bloody path out of Dean. Curious, she curls her fingers toward her palm, inspecting each one with her thumb, flicking out bits of Dean’s soft flesh and blood from under her fingernails. “What do you think, Dean?” Rachel sneers, showing off her freshly painted nails, droplets of the fresh crimson ‘polish’ drip, drip, dripping onto Dean’s forehead, the tip of his nose. She leans in, “I’m going to call it ‘Winchester Wine’ or ‘Dean Garnet’. Appropriate, don’t you think? Especially since we can call this shade of red, Garnet, and garnet is January’s birthstone, and since you were born in January…. well, I’m sure you know where I’m going with this. Oh! How about ‘Dean Winchester Garnet’? It is, your blood after all.” She hisses and pokes his nose with a bloody finger. “You know, I think Alistair would agree." 

_Guess that was a NOOOOOOOOOO to fucking passing out! Ahhhhhh! FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckNOT AGAIN!_ Dean bucks. Kicks his legs. Digs his bare feet into concrete now wet with his blood, fiercely determined to get away; Pants, and thrashes his head back and forth. _Oh, God, it’s Alistair….please stop…..n-not again….too sore….stop….please…M’tieeeerrrddd…Wait_

NOT ALISTAIR! 

Now that voice is screaming even louder at louder at Dean to fucking wake the fucking motherfucking hell UP RIGHT NOW,DEAN! 

_Losing my mind…losing control…_

Wake up! 

The voice is sooooo fucking loud and sooo adamant for him to wake up, get up, FIGHT! HURRY UP! HURRY AND WAKE UP AND FIGHT!! _Well damn, someone is insistent_

_NO shit, Sherlock! Now get the fuck up!_

It’s either his hunter instinct, or his inner child, who, by the way, because of all this BULLSHIT, is now swimming too damn fucking close to the surface. Or it’s his basic need for survival. Hell, man maybe it’s all three. 

Maybe it’s Cas, his soul suggests. 

_Cas._

Whatever it is, and, fuck, man, he sure as shit hopes it’s his fucking angel, it’s a fucking life line and he fucking grabs that shit, yes he damn well fucking does. Dean propels himself toward the surface, (and if the kid hitches a ride, so be it), breaking through with a growl that sounds an awful lot like eight cylinders and lumpy cams tearing ass over pavement. Maybe the Impala knows he needs her. Either way, his eyes snap open, and his hands wrap around a throat. 

Dean launches himself up and flips positions with the vaguely familiar woman. He’s downright feral, snarling out, “Surprised, bitch?!” Dean grins nastily at the startled as all fuck expression looking up at him. “Yeah, that’s right, sweetheart; My turn.” 

Man, he sounds menacing! _Good. My asshole is burning like a mother…Mm! Goddamn! I’m torn inside too. And I’m bleeding. Pretty fucking pathetic I even know what that feels like… Ima kill her_

He tightens his grip on the bitches neck, fighting the urge to take in his surroundings for means of escape, with the need to squeeze this bitches neck so hard her goddamn eyeballs pop out. Yup. Fuck all that other shit. He wants revenge. Now. “Ya really think ya can do any worse than I’ve already had,bitch? Ya think your fingers in my ass makes any difference? Been there, done that, ya fucking douchebag.” Tasting iron and copper in his mouth, Dean snickers and flashes La Douche another nasty blood stained grin and deliberately _(Okay, maybe not ENTIRELY deliberately)_ coughs a spray of blood in her face. “Let’s get some shit straight, bitch. You don’t know shit about my Dad’n’me, you fucking psychotic fucking piece of shit.” His tone is menacingly calm. “Should I point on the doll where my Daddy,’’ Yeah, that’s right, he can be just as much of a mocking asshole too. “didn’t fucking touch me?” Giving his finest sneer he releases some of the pressure around the twat’s neck. Just in case she says anything he might find helpful. 

Helpful to him snapping it. 

Rachel truly underestimated the strength and character of this one. How very interesting. She’ll play along for a while simply out of curiosity. No doubt his adrenaline will wear off soon enough. In the meantime…she’ll appreciate the view. Her captive is dripping a savory blend of sweat, water, and blood. Those lovely emerald orbs are full of fire and fury, yet wild and panicked. Beautiful..His jeans are soaked and half off, tight from saturation in all the right places. The hunter's boxers are soaked with blood that seeps through those wet, wet jeans of his that cover such a perfect ass. _When did I start getting aroused by him? A human!_ He’s barefoot. Feral. Delicious. Her hunter’s shirt is torn and absolutely saturated with blood and water and sweat, and she cannot help herself from reaching up and twisting his shirt, haughtily laughing as Dean flinches, his stomach sucking inward in a vain attempt at pulling away. Apparently her little toy doesn’t want her touching him. Perfect…Clearly the movement, hurt him, and, clearly, she doesn’t give a shit. “Ahhhh….” She wrings out his shirt releasing that nummy combination of Dean all over her chest, maintaining grey to green contact and moans. “….Divine, darling.” 

Dean gags. Digs his feet in deeper, frantic. Yet he still can’t help being a smart ass. “You’re one sick bitch.” 

“You’ve no idea, Darling.” Rachel is intoxicated with Dean’s scent, and aroused by his behavior; It has her salivating.  Using her legs, she pulls him down closer, and leans up to deeply breathe him in; salt and sweat, blood and tears. The fact that Dean’s hands are wrapped around her neck is of little import, and to prove this she easily switches their positions, her hands now around his neck as she straddles the surprised hunter.   Fear… 

_… Delicious._ Unbidden she whines and runs her tongue lasciviously over her lips with anticipation. She leers down at Dean and knees him in the balls. “Oh the things I’m going to do to you, pretty boy… My pretty, pretty boy toy.” 

“Ain’t your toy, bitch!” _Holy fuck! That was hard to get out….damn… My balls!_ “SONUVBITCH! You fucking WHORE!” Dean’s hands make a valiant effort to stay their hold on the Bitch’s neck, but, Dean is a Winchester…so no such luck. 

Awesome. 

All he wants is to curl in on himself and sleep. For like….years. He squirms; bare, bloody heels digging into the hard concrete, his thighs trembling with the strain of trying to close them for some relief. He can’t hold his balls. Can’t cradle his aching stomach. Sick. He feels sick. This fucking stupid bitch on top of him is putting him in a world of pain and Dean has this aching suspicion that it’s only gonna get worse. A lot worse. “I’m g-gonna ….fuck…” He grits his teeth and scrunches his eyes closed. Her fucking knee is grinding into him. And fuckin’ hell it HURTS!! “Swear to G-God, bitch,” His hands curl into fists, pounding them on concrete wet with his blood and fucking cold ass water, making a splash that Dean wishes was the cunts face smacking into the ground instead of his hands. Blinking sweat and tears out of his eyes, Dean glares defiantly up at the bitch, promise of an agonizing death sparkling in eyes, and the dimples of his smirk. “I’m gonna kill you.” He smirks and winks, sealing the deal, through a fit of coughing, and tears prickling his eyes. _Fuck, man. My balls my BALLS! hurt. My ass hurts._ “An’I’ma enjoy the fuck outta it, bitch.” 

A shark-esque grin and airy sigh, Rachel shifts, and presses her knee down on Dean’s lower abdomen, relishing the the moan of pain Dean tries to keep to himself. “HA! Oh you think so, hm?” Rachel grinds her knee into Dean's bladder and grabs a fistful of his hair. And oooooh, how perfect Dean’s groans of pain are! 

“ARGH! B-BITC-CH!!” Dean’s voice breaks. He bites his bottom lip hard trying to distract himself from feeling like he’s gonna piss himself. 

Rachel yanks up Dean hard by his hair to meet her face, relishing how wide emerald orbs have become, and the resounding “Fuck you, bitch!” Dean spits out. Laughing , she licks his spittle and blood off sadistic lips curled into a vile smile. “You stupid, stupid, ant. You have no idea... But, believe it or not, there is someone vastly, more important than you who I am after, and when I finally get my hands on him….lets just say that watching me carve you to pieces in front of him will utterly destroy him because you are his everything, you fool.” 

_CAS!! SHE’S….SHE….S-She….she’s…Cas….no…no…oh God….please…p-p-please don’t let her be TALIKING ‘BOUT MY HALO!!! Cas…Cas….please…please stay put, ya feathered fucking ….Cas man…Shut. Up! I gotta stop think’n ‘bout him…dunwanna call him accidenta-_

“You stupid, stupid man.” Her vile smile curves into a wicked grin and she slams her head into Dean’s. 

Oh…fuuuckkkk…..Dean’s head is swimming. Awesome. Can’t f-focus…can’t think….ugh…He wants to call her a fucking cunt, but he’s pretty sure it totally did not come out that way. He’s straining to remember just who the bitch is talking about. He had it figured out, he knows he did. He KNOWS! We’ll he DID, until she hit his fucking head! Deliberate. Bitch! Oh he’s PISSED. AND concussed. Again. He’s tired. Really tired. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open. He’s losing. He jus…jus can….tuh…..eyes…op… And….finally….

_‘Hello darkness my old friend…’_ <

Oh how perfect this all is! Rachel can’t stop thinking that: She is immensely proud of herself. “That’s it, little boy, you just sleep and let Rachel take care of you, you stupid piece of shit. Now then…” With this useless sack of meat in her arms her game can finally begin! Completely forgetting her audience now, Rachel loses herself into her game, her fantasy. Her audience; Amelia, however, has not forgotten,and is watching, completely transfixed in both horror and excitement. I need to hide, she decides, really not wanting Dean to know she’s the one behind Dean’s capture and subsequent torture. He can’t know. Her inner voice insists Devil on my shoulder… that it won’t matter because Dean will die here and Sam will never find out. A whisper in the back of her mind, long closed off since coming here, taunts _Angel._ Amelia stays just where she is. Watching. Rachel yanks Dean’s head up further, and back, gifting his neck to her wanton mouth. She laves maliciously at his neck, drawing blood with each drag and scrape of teeth; each rip of tender flesh; while in complete contrast, seductively ripping out his sutures one by one with the blade she’d almost forgot she possessed. What fun this boy. Determined to manipulate even more suffering from the semi-conscious hunter, Rachel presses her blade further into his bruised flesh. And oooh how Dean’s body reacts! Exquisite! He’s so incredibly pliant!    The pain is so intense for Rachel's captive that it forces his back to arch directly into her blade, pushing it further still into his sternum. With a predatory curl to her lips, Rachel slips her free arm under Dean’s arching back maintaining the pressure of blade to bone, pushing him up until her blade is buried into  the very marrow of his bone. She carves and slices into him as if he’s gossamer, her blade gulfing the flesh down his sternum and to the left, following and exposing the curve of his ribcage. Tendons snap, muscles tear, skin shreds, bones break, blood gushes, and with Dean’s screams, the orchestra is complete, and her opus begins. Smiling, Rachel sheathes her blade, humming serenely as she wiggles fingers into Dean’s open wound. She caresses the muscles and bone she exposed with her blade,Dean’s fresh blood pumping a crimson glove over her hand and she moans savagely in pleasure. 

Dean’s eyes pop open, dull emerald rimmed with red. He squirms and howls through red tinted vision. _Jesus Christ…what the..._ his eyes roll downward along with his head. 

Bad. 

Idea. 

It takes way too long for him to realize just WHERE this bitches hands are and why he suddenly feels very, very sick. Very, very wet. Something is very, very, very wrong. _No no no no no no oh no oh no no no no oh nonononononononoooooooo…_ “OOOOOOOONOOOO!” Realization hits like an ice cold soaken ass wet wash cloth being slapped across his nuts… 

Dean bucks like a wild animal. 

Dean kicks out, digging his heels into and over the concrete like a feral animal.

Dean screeches and howls like a wounded beast. 

Dean sobs like a wild, feral, wounded human being in absolute devastation. 

Dean is beside himself. He’s shaking, trembling, freezing, squealing, sobbing, cursing, and it’s too much too much! _Too much too much no no no no no stop stop stop oh God it hurts so bad! It’s so loud! Inside! She’s..hands…Alistair….hands…inside…too much too much too much no no no no no no no please please please Cas Cas Cas Cas CasCascascaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh_!!!! So hysterical in his agony and desperation to escape, he has no idea the thick, tough skin of his heels is gone, and is now bare bone, which is what he hears, and _feels_ scraping the wet, bloody concrete. 

Rachel curls her tongue into the corner of her mouth, concentrating as she rips into silky soft flesh and hard muscle, ravenous for Dean’s screeches and howls and sobs of absolutely devastating agony. Caterwauling in adulation of her artistry, Rachel cleaves into Dean’s upper pectoral with her hand. 

Dean shrieks; bucking and thrashing, “FFFFFF’SSSS’TPPPPPP!!!!AHHHHH!!!” 

But she holds him tight. Rachel curls her hand around his collarbone and squeezes. 

Dean claws frantically at her hand, tears streaming down his face. 

Rachel crushes a portion of his collarbone before snapping the rest in half. 

Dean gasps sharply. Emerald goes wide with pain. 

Rachel slowly pulls the broken piece of bone out only to stab it back inside him. 

Dean bucks once, twice. Scream locked in his throat. 

Rachel laughs, rubbing the end of his collarbone like the head of a dick. 

_ToomuchToomuchToomuchToomuchToomuchToomuch….s’n’ff….cuh…’nt….n’mor…..t’rd…sick….no feels g’d….’s’not’guh’d_ Dean vomits. Pisses himself before falling limp in her arm. “…..C-Cuhh….aaaa…” He twitches before finally passing out. 

Rachel tosses her head back and howls with laughter as Dean’s bladder relieves itself. As a final degradation, Rachel licks a red strip up Dean’s neck and over his chin, to viciously bite down on his bottom lip. Blood flows between their connection and she purrs silkily, “You know, Dean, I do believe those clothes of yours just need to come off,” Making a face she sniffs, “Can’t have you smelling of urine when you’re not actually relieving yourself,now can we?”  She releases her hold on his lip and launches his head down, laughing at that pretty little head of his, bouncing off the concrete as she stands up.   “Oooo… Awww, poor baby, that’s going to leave a mark.” Derision dripping from her voice, Rachel relieves Dean of his clothes, simultaneously cleansing herself free of Dean’s urine with a snap of her fingers. To further undignify her hunter-slash-toy, she uses her foot to push him onto his back and pose him spread eagle. 

Then she kicks him.  
   
_Hard._

Right in his hip, delighting in the jerky twitch and flop reaction of Dean’s left leg and the accompanying pained grunt. She steps back and marvels at her work: Dean’s hip is now grotesquely dislocated.  
   
Smug, Rachel looks down her nose at the wounded man splayed at her feet. “Oh I hate you, Dean Winchester. I despise your boyfriend more though. The both of you. UGH!” She kicks Dean in the ribs she just played with. Her Grace is now teeming with loathing, and ferocious thirst to cause them both grievous bodily harm. She’ll have to wait for Castiel though.  
But… “But what I do have,” finishing her thoughts out loud, “ is you, Castiel’s abhorrent human charge. You, Deaaaaaaaaan. YOU: The one whom indoctrinated _‘your savior’, MY FRIEND,_ into Falling. Falling into the foul creature Castiel has become! BECAUSE OF YOU!!” Rachel howls in rage: “I HATE YOU, DEAN WINCHESTER! I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!!” Snarling, she brings her heel down on the left side of Dean’s pelvis with such crushing force, she punctures the skin and snaps his pelvis in half, a portion of her heel stuck in Dean’s pelvic bone. “HA!”

_Hysterical._

“Well will you look at that, Little Boy Dean; My heel is stuck.”  Laughing manically, she uses her free foot, pressing down hard on Dean’s groin, to yank herself free. 

Suddenly struck with a delicious idea, Rachel backs up enough to give herself a running start. She lines herself up with Dean’s crotch and narrows her eyes at his scrotum. Rachel is about to kick a field goal. Oh she’ll be kicking a ball alright. Or two, she snickers. 

Rachel raises her arm. 

Jogs toward Dean. 

Raises and swings her leg back. 

 And kicks Dean with strength only the supernatural possess, right in his delicate testicles. To her delightful surprise she catches his flaccid penis with her heel on the up swing, tearing the thin, delicate skin of the human penis.

 

“It’s good!” Triumphant and proud, Rachel raises her arms in celebration.  With a momentary sigh of satisfaction, she kneels beside Dean, watching as the first petals of his blood flower and rapidly flourish. Her tongue slowly caresses her lips as she revels in Dean’s trauma and ensuing reactions.

 

 

 

 _PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! SOMETHINGS WRONG! WAKE UP!! HURTSHURTSHURTSHURTSHURTSHURTS!!   OH DEAR GOD AND SWEET TAP DANCING DILDO JUGGLING CHRIST ONA FUCKING BICYCLE GOD IN HEAVEN SHIT EATING CROWLEY KING OF HELL FUCKING BALLZZZZZ WHAT THE FUCK WHY THE FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKDOIHURTSOGODDAMNFUCKINGBAD!?  WHEREAMI?!WHATHAPPENED?! YEOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWW! MOTHER MARY FULL OF GRAAAAACE!! OW!OW!OW!OW!OW!OW!OW!OW!OWIE! OWIE!OWIE!OOOOWWWUHHHHOLYSHHHHHHIIIIIT! FFFFUHFUHFUFUHFUCCCKKKKINNNNNGCUHCUCUHCCCOLDDD!!_   _GOD DAMN IT I’M FUCKING AWAKE NOW! AGAIN! Why can’t I jus’leep…. Just let me sleep…please._

_It just hurts too much and too bad and I don’ wanna…I wanna sleep….too much too much…._ _'No sleep til Brooklyn'...no sleep for you, Dean-O! 'Damn it, Janet!'…Annnnnd....'here I go….again…_

_…on my oooownnn. Goin’ down the only road I’ve ever known!'_ _Yeah, the road, the Highway to Hell; To pain…_

_Cas’ voice: ‘I am sorry, Dean, but you do need to wake up.’_

_‘S’kay, Cas…I do for you…_

Dean snaps awake with a high-pitch blood-curdling scream that tears the fabric of space and time.  _AND YES, IT DAMN WELL DOES HURT THAT FUCKING BAD OH MY GOD!_ His back bows sharply, making any gymnast proud, off the wet, cold, bloody concrete. _Gotta catalog...keep...keep r-record...injur...ies...._ _Cracked and broken, okay, definitely broken, volatile, protesting fucking ribs have fucking fragments splintering off that are shredding and stabbing, God-knows-what and God-knows-where, from movement. Great. Heels fucking HURT. Fucking chest? What? Why? I…fuzzy…Shit….sonuvabitch… chest hurts.Fading...._ The nasty gash on his side (Thank you, Sam's shotgun),recently emancipated from its yoke of sutures, harshly rips further apart; Just like Dean’s heart when Sam chose Stanford over Sam’s own family.   Over Dean. 

_Yeah. That still hurts._

_Holy shit on a…. God…I… HURT!_

He can’t catch a breath. 

He’s confused. 

He can’t hear over the rushing blood rapids in his ears. 

He tastes iron. 

He has no control over his eyes. If they open, everything is too, too bright with TV like static and they close. When they’re closed everything is red and inky and it scares him. 

He’s cold. 

_Jesus Christ I’m fuhfffucking freezing! Am I naked?! I am! What the fuck?! Why the fuck am I naked?! Fuck it’s cold!_ His entire body feels electric; Searing white hot pulses of lightning arch through him and he swears he’s smoking. 

If he wasn’t in so much pain, he might’ve joked… something about him and smoke and heat, but… 

But he’s way too busy writhing savagely in torrential agony. 

_Oooh! Oh God! What… what… oh God oh God oh God oh fuck…. Aggghhhhh….. Aggghhhhh…. Oooooh Ooooooh Ooooh fffffuckkkkkkk….. Hurts! Hurts! Holy fuck it hurts so goddamn bad! I…. oh God I feel sick! Jesus,…. What…. Why? Oh God hurts too much! It’s too much…. Oooh….ahhh….’m’suh-suh-suh-suh ccccccoooolddddddd…… puhpain….ccccuhcccuhooooold…..tttooo muh…chhh_   _Too much! Too much! Oh God please it’s too much!_ _I can’t… can’t…. Can’t think… too much … I don’t… I dunno…. I… ahhhhharghhh_ Dean twists to the side, back still bowed as his brain compasses why he hurts this bad. He grasps desperately for some form of coherence, lucidity to figure it out, but he just… can’t…grab hold, and if he does, once he realizes it, it’s gone. It’s as if he’s spinning faster than the speed of light on a merry-go-round being pulled through the event horizon of a black hole.   _I’m…I…I’m…not…that…does that make sense?? Am I making sense? I…I think so…But…I feel so…Beaten…I fuhfeel sick…I got nuf…I…I…I think my walls are cracking…Too much this time._   This time, between the fight with Sammy, his panic attack… the—his—inner child running rampant, demanding to be heard,  _needing_  to be heard, hell,  _he_  needs to let himself out…  _I’m losing it…_  But now, every single thing he’s ever been through from day one is all vying simultaneously for escape: attention, revenge, redemption, acknowledgment, his father’s _love and approval and pride;_ death, pain, The Pit, mommy; being mother, father, brother; loss, sexuality, the beatings, the rape, being forgotten, repressed emotions, trifecta of abuse, trauma, _abandonment_ , suffering, misery, help, care, comfort, affection, his  _needs_ , his desperate  _need_  for love, affection, approval, to be taken care of, for all of him to be loved- _all of it_ -unconditionally Dean _panics_. The depths of his thoughts... ...his desperation, ...his needs ... his emotions, 

... _the voices_ All overwhelming in their intensity. So he does what he always does when the emotional pain is too much: 

He plunges right into its physical counterpart. 

_I can sure as shit handle pain more'n all that....that...that....stuff. S'why I cut. 'N'hell, can't have Sammy fin'n'd'out. Fuff m'tireeeeed_. 

Here we go. 

Dean goes rigid, locked in place with the intensity of his pain. His jaw clenching and unclenching; his eyes wild, pupils blown wide in an avalanche of panic and terror. 

And just like that, 

The Hunter and his instincts are overruled by a terrified, panicking child. That child is hyperventilating, and bawling, which really hurts, and he can’t breathe, but he really wants to, an’s no one’s gunna help him ‘cos no one cares; They jus’ leave him an’ an’ don’ care for h-how luhlong… ‘Cos,’ cos Dean dudhin’ matter… _S-Sammy does tho’Na’me…nope…Daddy says so. Says m'bad. Says I won-won’t ever be a guhgood boy ‘less I keep Sammy safe. Buh…_

_But I jus’wan’mommy. I want mommy! I want m’daddy b-buhback. S’not f-fair…. I keeps'crooowin up… I was in the back seat of the M'pala…an’ an’ I… looked out the window an’I  watched a nice mommy make a bottle for a baby jus’ like Sammy. So, Sammy, he gets hun… hungree… hungry, an’ dad s’never here so I… I… I had to ‘neek out an’ go to a store. I diddn have no dollars so I jus’took it. I had to! Sammy won a’s’op cryin’ and then dad gets mean to muhme. I did good, tho, it took a few tries, but I did it… I had to put the weird nipple thing on a cap thingy an’ I had to put a bag in the bottle part, that was hard, had to warm up the milk too. Didn’ have ‘nuff for me, but’s’oky. I had to put the milk in the bag thingy an’ cover with the weird thing. I got burnedded a few times, but Sammy was happy_.   _Dad wasn’. He hit me. Suhsaid I wasun a’post to steal. Buh… buh I didn’ know wha’ tuh dooo….. Dad scary_. Dean’s world fizzles into blurry waves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent over 3 hours trying to get the damn HTML right. Didn't work. I apologize for the errors and if any of you have any questions, I'll clarify for you. I am really sorry. I just don't have the energy to continue to fuck with this. I wanted this chapter up AsAP and I FINALLY got it done after sooooooo long editing and writing. My husband is even pissed for this taking so long. UGH! M'tired.
> 
>  
> 
> I sincerely hope no one was triggered or anything bad. I cannot think any longer...love you all! XOXOXOXOXO


	8. With Time The Child Draws In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will bring us current as of Chapter 1. That moment when Dean wakes up to his blood dripping. From here on in will be present. This is how Dean all his current injuries. He's getting whumped the fuck up!
> 
> Rachel and Amelia have an awful fun at our boys expense.
> 
> Dean is valiantly trying to stay lucid, but with the blood loss and cold...well, he's soooo not awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the upcoming chapters we will hear from Bobby and a terribly guilt and distraught Sam.
> 
> And an angel in agony and despair and rage.
> 
>  
> 
> I've been worried that a lot of you believe Sam is acting waaaay OOC, which he is-to an extent. I feel I need to inform you lovelies that there is reason for it. 
> 
> Cas is still gonna kick his ass though. 
> 
> The next chapters will be full of whump and pain and revelations. Brotherly bonding and testing.Fluff and tenderness and unconditional love, Profound Bond....Medical terms, hospitals, bunker, sponge baths, gentleness, a blast from the past so I can torture my poor boy more....Eventually we will get to some hot,passionate lovemaking.
> 
>  
> 
> So just bear with me, guys. It's gonna be a long one. 
> 
> I really hope you guys like this. I love all the comments and kudos! Drop me a line if ya want, no pressure. Know that I ALWAYS read them, I just can't always respond right away. I love them all and I love all of you who have taken the time yo read , comment, kudo, lurk....whatever...It means a lot. Soooo much!
> 
>  
> 
> OH! One last thing; I WILL make Dean the happiest man ever in this. You have my word. 
> 
>  
> 
> And this one is gonna be graphic as well, so PLEASE HEED THE TAGS AND WARNINGS.

   
 ACT III

3 Days ago. Give or take.  
   
   
_Wow. Was I tripping? Heh. Man, I haven’t dropped acid since…since I was seventeen. Acid. LSD. LDS! Ha! HA ha ha HAHAHAAA! LDS…maaaaaan, that was some funny shit. I laughed my ass off at that part! Kirk, telling Dr. Gillian that Spock “…did too much LDS”! Oh my God that’s hiLARious; And then Spock cursing! Damn,man…funny shit._

 

_But wait. I haven’t tripped._

 

 _Hmm…I blasted a line a few months ago, but coke wouldn’t do that…_.

 

_I smoked a blunt, a joint, and hit my bong earlier…but…no, that DEFINITELY wouldn’t do that._

 

_Heh, well, not the particular strain I have at the moment._

 

_I did take a couple of oxy’s earlier too, but, they wouldn’t do that…_

 

_So it must have been…_

 

_... a memory…_

 

 

 

   
_Fuck._  
   
_What happened?_

 

   
_Where am I?_

 

_What time is it?_

_What DAY is it?_

Dean groans. 

 

 _Hurt. Stiff._  
   
_Why am I sssssoooo cccuhcold?!_

 

_What the freakin’ hell is going on…M’not even this fuzzy or fucked up after oxys. Fuck me, man! Wish I had some now…_

.

He feels really fucked up. Cloudy. Fuzzy.

 

_Man, drugs never fuck me up this bad…Ugh! Think, Dean, think….I….I…_

 

He groans again and cringes, eyes squeezing shut tight.

 

 

_I was…I was….I…_

 

   
_I…I was with Baby…and then…_

 

 

_He argued with Sam, well no, he listened…_

 

   
_Hurts…So so bad… Aahhhhhh ssshhhittttt….Fffocus…_.

 

 

  _...listened as Sam laid into him somethin’ fierce. Fuzzy…. And…_

 

_...And…_

 

 

_And…_

 

*************** FLASH***BACK***RANDOM DAY***SAMMY IS 12***DEAN IS 16***A FEW MONTHS AFTER DEAN'S RETURN FROM SONNY'S********************* *************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

“Sammy, please.. Please… Sammy, please…. Just… Just do what Dad says, okay? Please? Please don’t argue with him. Please don’t give him an attitude.  
Please, Sammy. For me? I, I’m begg’n’yuh, man. Please?” _I can’t take anymore, Sammy. Please stop doin’shit tuh piss off Dad. It just gets worse. I can barely breathe…God I fucking hurt…_

 

“ IT’S SAM!! I HATE YOU! YOU ALWAYS ALWAYS TAKE HIS SIDE!! HOW CAN YOU ASK ME TO NOT STAND UP FOR MYSELF!? DO YOU EVEN CARE ABOUT ME  
AT ALL?! YOU AND DAD DON’T CARE ABOUT WHAT I WANT! IT’S SO UNFAIR!! SO, NO, DEAN, I WON’T DO WHAT YOU WANT! OR WHAT DAD WANTS. I’M  
GOING TO DO WHAT I WANT. SO. FUCK. YOU!”

 

 

 

Maybe if Dean wasn’t so tired.

 

Maybe if he had eaten something in the last… However many days.

 

Maybe if Dad hadn’t already’ve beaten him however many days ago. He really has no clue anymore. It’s really hard to remember when everything hurts.

 

Maybe if he didn’ hava concussion.

 

 

He’s so very confused.

 

Maybe if he wasn’t so weak and tired and rundown.

 

Maybe if he wasn’t running a fever

 

 

Maybe if it was only Dad that beat him instead of the gang of douche bags who beat him while he was recovering from Dad’s last beating and then Dad  
beating him after the gang of dick wads.

 

 

***FLASH BACK FADES TO PRESENT***** 

 

It’s all so very confusing at this point.

 

 

Very, VERY confusing. Ev’thing is fuzzy.

 

He blinks his eyes and hes right back....***FLASHES RIGHT BACK***

 

Maybe if his vision wasn't tinted red from burst capillaries.

Maybe if Dean wasn’t so tired.

Maybe if he didn’t have 7 broken and cracked ribs.

Maybe if he wasn’t pissing blood.

Maybe if there were only 1 Sam instead of 3.

Maybe if there weren’t black dots and white static glittering in his eyes…

 

Maybe THEN he could have protected himself from the wallop of a punch Sam is currently slamming into his face. 

 

Huh. 

 

The force of the punch snaps Dean’s head back. 

 

Blood sprays out in a perfect arch. Dot dot dot on the water stained ceiling of yet another seedy, nasty motel room Dad dragged them  
to.

 

Again.

 

It’s all happening in slow motion. 

 

As Dean’s head falls back he considers the arching spray of blood and snickers. 

_Pretty_

 

He snorts, well, sorta snorts, watching as his blood goes

drip

drip

drip

drip

splot

splot

splap

onto the ceiling. 

 

S’kinda hard to snort when his nose is stuffy with blood, but’s’ill’s’funny. 

On the return forward from backward momentum, Dean’s head meets Sam’s left hook (atta boy, Sammy, switch hittin’!), the blow so  
devastating that he's pretty damn sure it snapped his right eye socket, and that part of it is protruding from his face. 

He thinks. It fucking hurt like that anyway. 

 

Oh well.

 

And yet, despite the hurt of betrayal, the guilt of hurting Sam, and the fucking pain of the punches, he can’t help feeling proud of Sam.  
He did, after all, teach Sammy that particular combo.

 

S’funny, Dad’s probably proud too. 

 

Of Sammy.

 

Always Sammy.

 

 

Never,

 

Ever,

 

Him.

 

The two quick hits spin Dean around and off the bed to the floor on his hands and knees. He stays like that, listing to one side and then  
the other, fighting off the prickles of static in his eyes. Absently Dean hears Sam take off, slamming the motel door behind him. He leans  
on the bed, closing his eyes with a whimper he’ll deny he made later, fighting off powerful waves of nausea and agony. Not again…  
_Sammy...Sammy...why? Why don't you get it? 'M always on your side..._ Please, God… Not a—

 

“DAMNIT, DEAN!! What the FUCK did you do to your brother?! You fucking worthless…” John slurs, and stomps into the bedroom. He looks  
down at Dean and snarls. “…pathetic sack’a’shit…”

 

Shit… Dean barely focuses on his watch. ‘S’all’confus’n’ an’ red.

Dad’s fucking black out drunk. Again. And it’s only 1400… Dean can’t help his pitiful whimper anymore than he can the blood that’s  
gushing from his face. “D-Duh….D-Dad…Dad, please…

 

 

_Please…please….no…_

 

_So confused….so fuzzy…_

 

_Fight with Sam…_

 

_Dad….Oh God….NOOOOOO!!! Dad damn near killed me that day….so wait…_

 

_Why can’t I think?_

He’s so cold.

 

Can’t think right.

   
Fuzzy…

   
And….and…

   
He left the bunker…

Sam! Okay, Okay…fought with Sammy.

Bunker.

Dad is dead, and he sure as shit ain’t at the bunker. 

_Fuck me…need to think._

 

   
S’ffffuzzzy…..

 

 _Kinda hard ta think though when I hurt this bad._

Shit.

So not awesome.

 _Hi, Pain! Knew it wouldn’t take long!_  
   
   
_PAIN!_

 

_OH MY FUCKING…_

 

_YUP!_

   
_Oh sweet baby JESUS!_

 

_There it IS!_

 

  _FUCK…. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! I’m gonna… shit… I…. M’gunna….suhsick._  
 

 _Why? Why? I…I don'…why’n’wuh?_  
 

 

 _BRAIN: “Hey, man, I found the source,”_  
 

_Oh, great, where, douche bag?_

   
_BRAIN: “Little Dean and his friends say hi.”_

 

_Ha! Yea--no._

_BRAIN: “No--yeah. And here: FEEL IT ALL! NOW! BAM! WHAM! NO THANK YOU, MA’AM!_

 

   
   
_WHAT?!_

 

_Ooooh….Je-_

_Jesussss…_

 

_Oh…Oh…oh Ooooooh…thuh’soun’sf’famil’r p-pain…_

 

_Nuhnooooo…Fuck….n’gain. Why? Why’gain? Why? Why? Why’s he hurt’n me like tha’g-guhgain?_

 

_Fuzzy._

 

_CLEAR!_

 

_Giggle._

 

_FFFFUZZZZZZYYY!_

 

_Gigggggglllllleeeee gigggle giggle! Hee hee! Weeeeeeeee!_

 

_Fuzzy and clear are fighting._

 

_Fuz and cle are ffffissstuh-cuff’n ‘gain!_

Dean giggles, finding it incredibly amusing. He snickers again as he spits and drools out giggles from blood loss, struggling between coherency and the seduction of darkness, which is, apparently, hysterical. Did he already say that? Amusing? Check. Hysterical? Double ch-check! Ha! "Sppppfff."

 

“...Sch’plussche’g’na’win?” Laughs. _Owie. No laugh. Oh god,shouldn’t have laughed…_

 

   
Dean rolls on his left side, bellowing in agony and rolls to his right. He howls and weeps, spitting out expletives in a flurry, spittle and blood flying out with the intensity of a hyperdrive, in fucking unbelievable fucking goddamn agony. _Jesus. Why? Fucking everything fucking hurts, man….Something is wrong.S-Suh…ssssoooooo wrong. Shit. So not awesome._

 

_My balls! My dick! Fuck…fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK!!_

_Chest. Fucking…Jesus…totally did NOT feel that bad before…fuck…_

Gasp. Barely a breath. He really fucking hurts. Gingerly Dean runs his hand over his collar bone.. _OH FUCK!_

Over his pecs and ribs…damnit…fuck…He half laughs and sobs. _Ribs’r …vi…visible…_

_My skin and muscle and bone…Jesus…I know I should’n be seein'm…_

 

“G’n’a’hurl.”

   
   
Dean vomits. _Holy mother of god that fuckin’ hurt! Man…Never did like hurlin’ with broken ribs…heh…let alone FREAK’N EXPOSED AND DANGLIN’ ONES!!!_

 

 _Oh god._

 

_Not again._

 

_Awesome._

 

Dean vomits and shakes.

 

Apparently not the first time, considering the aroma of bile. He spits out thick mucus and gags. “Ugh.”

And piss.  
That is definitely bile AND piss.

 

Awesome.

 

Chest heaving he snaps his eyes closed and rubs his head into the concrete, trying like fucking hell to get a grip on his pain. Pain ain’t even the word for it. Had to be bad if he pissed himself. Oh God. 

Everything is so fuzzy. He’s so fucking cold and hurts so bad and his dick!! Dean curls into himself as best he can. He really hurts. 

Sonofabitch!!

_What would Han Solo do? What would Han and Chewy do? What....whaaaa...._

 

Speckles and dots are dancing behind closed eyes.

_The fuccckkkkkkk…?_

 

_Ahhh…passing…_

_...out..._

 

*****Several Hours Later******

 

_Hate wakin’ up hungover._

 

_Oh yeah._

_Pain._

 

_Cold._

 

_So definitely not hungover then._

 

_Fuck nuggets…where the fuck is Cas? I need him…_

 

_Miss’m. M-Miss ya, Cas...I’m gonna open my eyes now and Cas will be here._

 

_Eyes open._

 

_An’ jus’ why the HELL DID I THINK THAT WOULD WORK?_

 

_Ain’t looking at nothin’ but my bodily fluids._

 

_My piss._

 

_My puke._

 

_My blood._

 

_My._

 

_PISS._

 

He blinks and focuses on the puddle an arms length in front of him. Noticing his breath for the first time, Dean realizes just how cold it is. _Gotta be below sixty, maybe fifty to see my breath. Not good. I hate hypothermia. That explains the confusion…Ha! And that is the least of my problems. God my dick hurts. My balls…side…hip..pelvis….yeah….I’m in great freakin’ shape._

 

Dean folds himself in half, wishing like hell he could draw his knees to his chest. He wants to cradle his once glorious, damn fucking glorious indeed, package. But, he’s, uh, real scared a what he’ll find. Oh god….something is really wrong down there. Really wrong.

 

He dry heaves through chattering teeth.

 

And then he’s pukin’ up blood.

 

 Something is REALLY wrong.

 

   
   
He breaks out in a cold sweat, turning deathly white and heaves out a choking, rasping, angry sob.

 

   
It is then that Dean’s bright and agile mind decides to helpfully supply him with very, very, bad… so….so bad…so very not good phrases, like:

 

   
_“Rupture of the testicle.”_  
   
_Or:_

   
_Perhaps a lovely, “Dislocation of the testicle.”_

   
_Dislocation._

   
_Of._

   
_My balls._

   
_Leaving my scrotum._

   
_Because, apparently, rent is cheaper inside my body. I guess ‘cus you’re not payin’ for the view._

   
_I can’t even believe I know this shit._

   
   
He curls in on himself instinctively, not giving a flying rats ass how bad it fucking hurts, holding his package and stomach simultaneously, left leg flopping uselessly.  
   
_Shit…shit…I…s’not fff’s‘ood…_

   
_More words: “Torsion.”_

   
_Sounds about right._

   
He gasps and squeaks in an octave he’s never, ever heard himself make.  
   
   
Dean gently feels his balls.  
   
   
_Ahhhh…Oh…oh son of…_  
   
   
They’re swollen bad.  
   
   
They don’t feel right.

   
Terrified he touches his dick.  
   
   
Dean yelps in pain, his gentle touch burning like acid.  
   
_Mind: “Avulsion.”_

   
   
“Noooooooooo…..nooonoonoooonoooo…..s-s-st-st-stuh-sstuh-aaaaahhhhhp….Juh…Jesus….Fuffuckkkk…...”

 

   
Dean rocks himself, curls in tighter, nothing, absolutely nothing helps now that his mind has caught up and diagnosed. He grinds his teeth together, eyes scrunched and closed tightly, leaking tears

He is good and terrified now.  
   
Dean is out of his mind with pain, all remaining lucid, coherent thought disappearing the moment he realized just how bad he was hurting. And where. _Why’s’hat s’nd ‘mliar?_

 

_‘Dean, you know why we hurt like this. Why it’s similar.’_

 

_No…no please…please…_

 

_‘Yes, Dean-O. We don’t want to hurt anymore, you know that. What they’ve all done to us is WRONG. It’s not FAIR!’_

 

_I know…I know…but…not worthy of anything else…_

 

_‘Yes we are! We are worthy of love! Sammy loves us. Bobby loves us. CAS loves us.’_

 

_NONONONONONONOOOOO! No. No they don’t. ‘Specially SuhSammy._

 

_‘Wasn’t Sammy, man. You know that. We know that. Something else is going on.’_

 

_Dud'n' c-c-change how right he was. G’way!_

 

_‘No. Not leaving you like all those all those other pricks.’_

 

_I want Cas…wanna hug…hurts…tired’a hurtin’…Cas'll make....m'bett'r._

   
   
He can’t process anything other than hurt hurt hurt hurt hurt. Pain. Pain. Won’t stop. There! _I’m hurt THERE!_

 

It’s all he can focus on. Everything else pales in comparison.  
   
   
Dean can’t stop himself from sobbing; it just hurts.

   
So cold….  
   
_It just…just hurts so, so, sooooo bad. An’m’s’colllddd…An…Ooooo…my God does it hurt. It hurts. It hurts. I hurt. Fuck it won’t stop!_

   
He gasps.

   
He chokes on his cries.

   
He screams.

   
He screams and howls and roars.  
   
He shrieks out morbid threats with promises to carry them out through chattering teeth.  
   
He shakes and shivers and trembles with cold.  
 

 

With fear.  
 

With agony.  
 

He retches and heaves and chokes.  
   
He gasps and hisses and stutters.  
   
He tastes iron.  
   
He feels his vocal chords catch fire.  
   
He feels his diaphragm tear.  
   
   
His voice incinerates to molten iron.    
   
   
He whimpers pitifully.  
   
He sobs brokenly. 

 

Not one, single fucking flying fuck left.  
 

Not.

   
One.

   
Fuck.

   
Left.

   
To.

   
Care.

   
Blood and saliva drool from his mouth with every whimper, broken sob, hoarse scream, onto the insanely freezing cold and wet concrete under his cheek.

 

   
The hunter is long gone… so, so, sooo far gone; His entire world narrowed down, consumed in pain so intense, that no language, dead or otherwise, could properly voice  
   
 

Dean is finally liberated into the black, and though his mind may have found brief salvation, his body is allowed no such mercy.  
 

Blood pours from his genitals.  
 

 

Blood pours from his pelvis, where Rachel’s heel pierced him.  
 

A river of his blood running down to merge with the lake of blood from his genitalia.  
 

River meets lake between a shaking levee of fingers.  
   
 

 

 

The levee breaks.

 

   
   
Dean’s blood seeps from his hands, and between his quivering thighs, forming a steadily growing pool, soaking the concrete beneath his shivering body .A plague of torment so foul and so annihilating it violates even the sanctity of Dean’s walls buried deep in unconsciousness.

 

   
  ***************

 

   
   
   
Rachel had quietly stood back while her toy suffered. It was ecstasy. On to the next phase! She brushes her hair back and sighs, “Well that was fun! What’s next… Hmmm…. Bah! Who am I kidding, right, Amelia?” She turns to grin nastily at the ashen face of Sam Winchesters bitch. “We both know where this is going.”  
   
“Let’s hook him up!” Rachel reaches up and yanks down a large meat hook with a particularly nasty looking barbed end. The hook is attached to a retractable, locking, length of chain. “Amelia, dear, what do you think?” Rachel shows off her toy proudly.

 

   
Amelia inspects the hook because it’s far better than what else she has to look at. “It… it has…”, She counts. “…six… six sides… ” She observes and flicks her eyes up to meet Rachel’s wicked grin.

 

   
“I know! That’s the idea, my dear,” Rachel pats Amelia’s cheek. “It’s going to make a big ol’painful hole that will tear him up inside and come out the other end! Watch.” Rachel drags the hook down and locks it in place. “Ya know, I think I want him awake for this,” Rachel presses two fingers to Dean’s forehead.

 

   
   
   
Wrest from the depths of blessed black, Dean careens toward consciousness. Confused and blood-shot green eyes snap open. Dean has no idea what the fuck is going on. He just knows pain. Too much of it. He hears a voice and thinks he sees someone, but his vision is blurry at best and his head is all freakin’ kindsa fuzzy. He gasps as he suddenly feels weightless. Before Dean can process that sensation, he’s none too pleasantly confronted with another one:  
   
 

Pressure.  
 

 

Intense pressure.  
   
 

Intense pressure right side, five inches up from where thigh kisses crotch, and two and half inches from his belly button, but on his back. Instinctively he tries to jerk away from it, but he can’t. And that terrifies him. The pressure builds and builds until suddenly it stops.

   
The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up, and he knows something is terribly, terribly wrong.  
Warmth suddenly floods inside him and out, right down his ass. Holy shit his insides have caught  fire, or, maybe they froze?  
   
   
   
_Can they be both?!_  
   
   
   
_Shit! Molten ice. Cold! Hot! Hot! Cold!_

   
   
   
It forces him to pay attention to something he really, _really_  would rather  _not._

 

   
Adrenal glands, however, flat out refuse to listen to his reasoning, demanding, obnoxiously, that he ‘knock it off and focus, damn it, because you really need to pay attention to this’.

   
And so Dean becomes keenly aware of 6 things before he sends lucidity to fuck off and fly the fuck on its merry way:

 

   
1. Something cold and  _sharp_  is now slowly gliding  _through_  him.  
2. Said thing is piercing his organs; he’s certain of it.  
3. He  _hears_  it.  
4. He _feels_ it twi-twisting inside him! Pullin’ and draggin’ things that should never be pulled and dragged and twisted.  
5. It’s now going to pop out in front of him.  
6\. Just. Like. The. _Pit._

   
   
He opens his eyes.  _Huh… when did I close them?_

   
His head is already hanging and it’s providing him with one hell of a view.

   
_Well shit. How about that… my balls are hanging weird. And m’dick is bleedin’._

   
_Is that…oh my God it is! Skin._

   
“Crap.” Dean huffs out in an exhale.

   
Woozy and loopy and fuzzy from blood loss and pain, Dean blinks a few times trying to focus on his stomach.

 

   
_Hm…_

 

   
_S’thas’trange…_

 

   
Dean narrows his eyes and furrows his brow, curious as to why he suddenly grew a curved, barb-ended stainless steel appendage out of his tummy.

   
_M’tummmmmy…Tuh…meeeee…_

   
_M’tum…Eeeeee…_

   
He giggles.

   
Drools.

   
“….spfffff….ha…” Giggles and spit.

   
_S’tha ‘kin? Huh. Howf’s’appen?_

   
Dean snorts and giggles again watching his blood pump out in race with his drool.

   
_Uhn…belly feels heavy now…really heavy and…sumfins not…_

   
He’s fading.

He’s losing blood. And fast.

He’s freezing fucking cold.

Confused.

 

   
“….s’not….s’t….s’aaahhhp….whaf….waaaff’y’do’n….ttttuh’m’f?” He swats haphazardly at something pink and shiny and wet and dangly.

 

   
_‘Pssst! Hey, jackass! Lucidity called and guess what it wants you to know?’_

   
_No...Nuh uhn…Telf it tuh’g’way! D’ncare…_

   
_‘You shooooouuuuldddd! It’s a meat hook! Just like in The Pit! Remember?!’_

   
_Nooooooo…_

   
_Hell…The Pit…Hooks…_

   
_Am I still there?_

 _Am I?!_  
   
Dean flips,  
   
the fuck,  
   
out.  
   
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” He is bucking and writhing and squirming; wailing and pleading; sobbing and whimpering.

   
He’s back on that rack.

   
_Oh God…It was all a dream…I never left…I’m still here…I never left…Cas ain’t real…I made him up…oh god noooo noooo noooo nooooo!_

   
Dean is back on that rack and Alastair is grinning while pulling, pulling, pulling ropes of intestine out as if they were magic scarves in a top hat.  
   
   
Dean bucks wildly again, overcome with need to escape; beyond all logic trying to escape; to ignore the sing-song voice of Alastair cooing every excruciating move Alastair makes. But it’s too much, way too much and too hard to ignore. Dean’s struggles are ripping his abdomen apart.

 

   
Alastair is a true artist.

   
   
He keens apocalyptically.

   
Over.

   
And over.

   
And over.

   
He wheezes and heaves between powerful laments. His vocal chords are shredded and bleeding.His throat is bleeding. Pretty sure his diaphragm is torn. Won’t stop his screams though.

   
And it hurts.

   
And it’s  _glacially fucking freezing cold!_

   
And it  _hurts._

   
He’s shivering.  _Shaking._

   
And _it hurts._

 

_Too much._

   
He’s fading.

   
He’s absolutely freezing cold on the  _inside!_

   
Fading…

 

   
_BRAIN: “Hey, D, wanna know why you’re cold inside?”_

   
_No, n’really, g’fuk’s‘elf…_

   
_BRAIN: “Metal gets cold, dickhead. There’s metal—a hook—a metal freaking hook, man. Inside you. So there ya go. Welcome.”_

   
_N-nu…uh…nunununuh ooooo! Peese no…_

   
Dean softly weeps,“Wuh…wuh…eye...’Stair? Suh…s-said n’more huh-huh-oooks…”

   
_Too much._

   
_Too cold._

   
_Too pain._

   
_Wan’out!_

   
“Wan’owwwww tuh tuh NOW!!”

   
He wants it out.

   
He wants it out NOW.

   
“Fuhfuh f’yuh, ‘Stuhstair! N’gain…”  
   
   
Dean sniffles and weakly reaches for the hook, feebly trying to get it out however he can, desperately willing himself to ignore  that part of his small intestine has left the building. He mewls in abject misery, frustration, and helplessness as his blood sodden hands slip and slide into the barbed end, slicing open.

   
Dean’s struggles slow.

   
He can’t stop himself from shaking, or his teeth rattling any longer.

   
He’s tired. And cold. _And hurting._

   
_Can’t…cuh…can…tuh…My’syes oh...pin_

   
   
He blinks away tears and watches the blood drool from his small intestine.

 

   
_S’not good…m’be…I’cn put back? S’migh’elp?_

   
   
He tries. God help him he  _tries._  But his stupid hands are saturated with blood and the organ is slippery.

   
Dean throws up blood.

   
He laugh-sobs.

   
He… can’t…think… straight…

 

   
_Tired._  
   
_Wet._  
   
_S’cold._  
   
_Confused._  
   
_Hurts._

   
He’s so tired.

   
So, so tired.

   
Unable to keep himself prone any longer, Dean goes limp, eyes rolling back before blinking closed. His shoulders slump and sag, curling him forward onto the hook, which then has him gasping sharply and sluggishly reopening his eyes. He stares stupidly at his toes for a while. Dean’s eyes slowly droop close. With a start he shakes his head, Very bad idea, and blinks repeatedly, begging tired eyes to remain open. He locks his sight on his toes. He wiggles a few of them.

 

   
_A few?_  
_Ahhh… few?_

 

   
Dean whines and traces the blood upward. The blood that is practically pouring out of him.

 

He blinks and finds himself staring at his toes again. Now he’s watching the blood drip,

drip,

drip,

off his toes,

down,

down,

down to the floor.

   
Drip.

Drip.

Drip.  
   
_Tired._

 

Drip.  
Drip.

Drip.  
Drip.

 

   
_So tired._

 

   
Drip.  
Drip.

 

   
_S’cuh’cooold. Tired._

 

   
Drip.

Dri—

 

Dean is out.

 

Until pain has him up a few moments later.

   
   
“…s’y’fffeel….w’eed…..s’wha….s’nooo…no…g’d….p’eese…. Pfff’st’p….” Dean pleads to whom(who?)ever is there hurting him.

 

   
_Nuffim…makufff…m’sensuff…hurfs…_

   
He feels sticky and sick.  
   
Wet and heavy.  
   
   
Warm blood wraps around his waist like a damp towel and he feels wrong. Tired.  
   
He’s fading again.  
   
_Nofff…nof’right…Sumfffs…ruh…onng…_  
   
   
   
He’s losing a battle with consciousness he’s not sure he wants to win.

   
   
Dean loses.

 

   
   
   
   
Rachel watches, beyond herself with joy, smiling, and gives Dean a push as if he’s a child on a swing.

   
   
   
   
Amelia is unable to tear her eyes from the gruesome, repulsive…display? Scene? She swallows thickly. Torture her mind supplies. “This…this…” She can’t help the gasp of shock as she watches the angel…  _Angel_ …kick and stomp, brutalize and then impale Sam’s brother… Sam’s… _brother._  She mentally shakes her head. Sam’s brother has a name… What is his name again?

   
_Dean. Oh._

 

   
Amelia strokes her neckline then splays her palm against her heart, as if somehow the hollow gesture will erase both the horror of her crime, and the sight of a woman impaling a helpless, wounded, broken man, with a meat hook. It is absolutely revolting to watch, yet Amelia can’t look away or shut her eyes. Somehow she is drawn to Dean’s reactions, his  _suffering,_ her mind informs her. Never in her life has she seen anyone in that much pain before. He’s so fragile. So _vulnerable_. Nothing at all like she expected. This man is in such horrible pain that it should sicken her more—way more—than it does to watch him suffer so cruelly.  _Needlessly,_  her mind again supplies. This should sicken her, it does, but… but there is also some small, dark part of her that is  _glad_  Dean is suffering so agonizingly. It feels better than the crushing anvil of guilt she’s been hammering herself against. Amelia needs a reprieve.

 

   
Amelia watches as this angel-in-a-woman’s-body, walks backwards pulling Dean along with her by the hook as far as she can, then releases it, reminding her of a mother pushing her child on a swing set; Perhaps in hell, maybe.

 

   
The poor man, Amelia thinks, watching Dean’s body sickeningly slide back on the hook with the movement forward, before launching so far forward with the inertia behind him that he stabs himself with the barbed end. Blood arcs around the man as he swings back and forth through the air.  _Sam’s brother_ , she forces herself to acknowledge.  
The Anvil again.

   
_So much blood._  Amelia is morbidly drawn to the sight of it. Despite Sam’s brother being unconscious again, his body is still strongly registering,  _and_  reacting to the unimaginable pain he has to be experiencing. _Dean._ His name is _Dean_ , she forces herself—again—to acknowledge. Dean is bleeding profusely. Dean is covered in blood from his lower waist, where the hook is, down to his toes. His body is curled around the meat hook. He rocks back and forth, back and forth, until he stops. Amelia forces the Anvil aside until she finds herself in front of Dean, gawking at that terrible hook and the, the string? She cants her head and inspects the wound closer. Bile rushes up her throat as realization hits her hard.

 

   
_It’s not string…it’s…part of his bowel! A portion of his—Dean’s—small intestine, muscle, tissue, a tiny bit of fat, and some skin, likely a result of being pierced, impaled, through the back and out the front._  
   
_Oh God_.  
   
_Hello, Anvil._

 

   
 “This isn’t what I meant…what I wanted…” Finding her voice, Amelia attempts to reconcile the scene before her with what she actually meant,  _But did I?_  when she prayed for Sam’s brother to once again be out of the picture. She wants Sam back. She won’t get him back though. Not with Dean around.

 

   
   
   
   
Rachel rolls her eyes watching Amelia.  _And here we go. Humans are so sensitive!_  She steps back and admires her work with a self-satisfied smirk before pushing Amelia out of her way and grabbing Dean’s forearms.  
   
Rachel turns her head slightly to appraise the human female beside her; She laughs at the absolutely horrified expression.  “Oh please don’t tell me you’re going to vomit up that ‘Do no harm’ spiel. Or vomit, for that matter. And you do know this moron here was the best torturer in Hell, right? Dean Winchester is evil incarnate, my dear.”

 

   
   
   
   
Amelia slowly pulls her stare from Dean to look at Rachel. Rachel looks so calm, happy even. But an angel happy with hurting a human? How… Why? Amelia really didn’t want Dean hurt…did she? She just…just wanted him… gone… This…torture, and that’s what it is, really, hadn’t even crossed her mind. But if Rachel is right, and why would an angel lie? They wouldn’t. Amelia is certain of it. Dean is getting exactly what he deserves. He was in Hell!?! He tortured in Hell!?! What a vile, evil man!!  
   
Amelia was right then. She was right to be so adamant on hurting Dean, especially after her call to Sam that Dean intercepted, and then Dean’s subsequent behavior! Ooooo he had her so, so, soooo angry! There was only one thing on her mind when she sought out _Divine Intervention._ Looking between Rachel and Dean, then back to Dean, Amelia had no idea her prayer would be answered, let alone heard, by angelic assistance. The trepidation Amelia felt when Rachel had brought her to Dean, who was sobbing curled in a little ball with his arms cradled protectively around his middle, turned to elation. Amelia was practically bursting with unabashed pleasure at Dean’s suffering. And it had felt good. After losing Sam, her Sam to Dean, she was livid. And there was only one thing on her mind. Revenge.

 

   
_So this is how you’re going to justify harm coming to another human being? To the brother of the man you love?_

   
_Yes._

   
_So long Anvil!_

   
Amelia hardens her resolve and justifies her actions, welcoming the dark part of herself that is free from the Anvil of Guilt. She grins conspiratorially at Rachel, “Oh no, no I am all for harm. I’m all over it.”

 

   
   
Rachel pulls down yet another hook and appraises Amelia. Satisfied with what she finds, squeals with delight, “You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that, my dear! Give me just…” She grunts with the effort of wrapping Dean’s arms and hands together with barbed wire and then hooking his wrapped arms over the hook she pulled down. “… one…”  _Almost there._  “… more…” She hoists the hook up, stretching Dean’s arms creating enough tension to pull him nice and good, about from the floor. Done! “Ahhh! All done.” She laughs, looking back at Amelia briefly, “Doesn’t he look just like bait! Ha!”

 

Amelia laughs without an ounce of regret, “He does!”

 

 

Rachel pulls a set of brass knuckles from her suit jacket and hands them over to Amelia. “Here. Have at his face.: She smirks. It’ll be fun. Rachel walks around to Amelia’s back and places her hands on the gullible woman’s shoulders, and gives her a gentle shove toward Dean. “Think of how much Dean here, has done to you. To Sam. Your Sam. To all those innocents he tortured. Just think, Amelia, long and hard.”

 

Amelia stares down at the brass knuckles in her hand, rapt. _The Angel is right. And I’ll finally be tipping the scales. Setting things right. This man…thing is evil. He hurt my Sam!!_

 

Rachel watches Amelia make her decision and grins. She touches two fingers to Dean’s forehead. 

 

 

Dean snaps awake in an instant. He’s confused and fuzzy again. And, man, he fucking hurts! He blinks a few times and stares at a woman placing ….blinks again. Brass knuckles?! Oh he knows where this is going….

 

Awesome.

Is that….? 

Amelia?

Sammy’s Amelia? She’s doin’ this?!!!

“W-Wait…duh…don’t….”

 

SLAM!

 

His head snaps back.

 

Crack.

 

His eye socket breaks.

 

Dean gasps and sucks a breath in before struggling to get out a string of words.

 

Coherently.

 

“Duh-duh-don’t….pl-please….”He runs his tongue over swelling lips, staining them red. It's so hard to catch a breath. Amelia will never forgive herself, he thinks. Hell. He knows. 

 

Amelia pauses to consider Dean’s plea. “Why would I do that?! YOU, Dean, YOU. YOU tortured innocent people!!”

 

“...I...Mmm...know.….Exactly.” Dean’s words are soft and warm and clear. Genuine. Breathless. He flicks green eyes up, squinting through the rapid swelling to meet Amelia’s dark glare. “You don’t….don’ wanna….fuh….don’wanna be….feel…don’ be ...duhn...do...wuh'I'd'd.” Dean's eyes are pleading. Begging Amelia to listen to him.

 

Amelia stares in shock. Why would he say that? It makes her angry. It makes her angry because it sounds an awful lot like he’s trying to save her.

 

She howls in a blind rage and shatters what she broke.

 

Dean’s head snaps back with the force of it again. _Guess she really hates me._

 

_Please, Amelia…don’t turn into me. You don’t want that weight…_

 

But it continues.

That’s a no then.

Okay.

It doesn’t stop for quite awhile and he’s not allowed to pass out.


	9. Note to my awesome readers

First off: I want to ridiculously and profusely apologize to you guys for posting this instead of a chapter.

Second: Thank you all so very much for taking time out of your lives to share it with me and my little-not-so-little-fic here. Thank you all so very much for each and every kudo and every single comment you guys take the time to leave me. It means the entire universe and beyond to me. It motivates for sure! I understand that you can't comment all the time and I absolutely do not expect you to. I will not beg you for comments, and all that silliness either. Lol I just want to take the time, much like you all when you read, etc, to say thank you. 

Third: Last month was crazy for me. Ups and downs and Halloween... All ran me ragged. I wasnt sleeping either. Bad business. Anyhow, that is all over with and I'm back on track! 

Fourth and Final: After I post this I am going to finish the next chapter and get it up. No promises that it will be up later today, but I'm going to try my damnedest. I don't want to cut you guys short and leave you with a short chapter just to post it, ya know? I have so soooo much written down for this. It's insane. Seriously. Seriously insane. All I need to do is flush it out, tidy it up to make sense, and possibly add more. I've been itching to get back! 

P.S. 

 

If you guys want to see anything in particular or have any questions regarding this fic, or any future fics, please drop me a line and I'll see what I can do! 

 

All my everlasting love and hugs and kisses!


	10. "The Way We've Always Done Before"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one you've been waiting for.  
> No, not the rescue.  
> That's coming.  
> The What the hell is wrong with Sam chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, guys. This one has been tough. Trying to get Cas right...straighten out thoughts. Trying to get SAM right! I am so nervous I really effed this one up....I hope I did right by all of you. I tried. I feel like I suck so bad at this....
> 
> There's no Dean in this chapter. Just a whole lot of thought and discussion on him.
> 
> And once again a chapter was so long I had to divide it up. 
> 
> I am curious to know if any of you get the chapter titles. If ya do, holla at me!
> 
>  
> 
> Well, here we go:
> 
> My first time writing Sammy.
> 
>  
> 
> *fingers crossed*

Bobby makes his way down the hall, having a hunch where Sam might be.

 

Yep. The garage. 

 

 _I love it when’m right. An’I usually am when it comes to my boys_.

 

Not exactly a guess though. Not when all ya hafta do is follow the wake of that Winchester Wrath.

 

“Huh, that’s actually a good thing. Means Sam’s pissed at himself ‘cause he knows he did wrong…but…a guilt stricken Sam over Dean.” Bobby mutters to himself and sighs. “Great. Idjits.”

 

Darn fools those two. 

 

S’one’a many reasons Bobby loves Sam and Dean suh much.

 

Dean though…

 

Dean has always had a special place in Bobby’s heart. Sam, well, he loves Sam a’course, but Sam never needed Bobby the way Dean did. And still does. Sam turned out damn fine thanks ta his brother. Sam doesn’t need for want of; Dean made sure of that. Dean gave, sacrificed really, everything for Sam, so Sam could have as close to ‘normal’…everything …as possible. 

 

Dean though…

 

Dean needs just about everything. 

 

John sure did make sure of that.

 

Bastard. 

 

Dean though. 

 

Dean brings out the papa _and_ mama bear in him. 

 

 

Bobby grins. _Heh. Karen’d’love that._ Dean is his son in all the ways that matter. 

 

Needless to say, Bobby is rather protective of Dean. 

 

He had to be.

 

Ain’t no one else was gunna.

 

So Bobby had proudly welcomed the mantle of protector ever since the day he first met the mute, malnourished--

 

_Huh. Come ta think about it now, that’s probably what started it._

 

\--four year old tenderly cradling his-too-big-for-his-too-skinny-too-tiny-arms, baby brother. Saddest little boy he’d ever seen. 

 

Bobby became even more solicitous after he witnessed John beating the tar outta the _six-year-old_ kid. John’s six-year-old _son_. Dean. Welp, Bobby dun flipped his shit good and proper. Kicking a cryin’ six-year-old with steel toe boots, drunk off his ass, fuckin’ good fer nothin’ sonofabitch…

 

 

Bobby takes a deep breath and shortens the remaining few feet to the garage, reigning in lose sutures on old wounds.

 

 _More important shit goin’ on tahday than lookin’ in the rear view mirror, ya old dog. Ya know bett’r’n anyone how damn small that rear view is, and how big the windshield is. Focus, Singer_.

 

Bobby stands just shy of the garage entrance, watching Sam pace furiously in front of the Impala…

 

 _Looks like a damn mountain lion behind bars_.

 

 

…the youngest Winchesters’ big hands ravaging his mane. 

 

 

Sam’s frantic hair combing comes to an abrupt halt, stalling out on the top of his head, hair tangling between those long fingers, muttering angrily under his breath. 

 

Huh. 

 

Not yet ready to be relieved of sentry duty, Bobby stays right where he is.

 

On edge.

 

 

Sam is, after all, a Winchester.

 

And Winchesters’ _are_ prone to impulsive explosions of rage.

 

And Sam _is_ awfully close to Dean’s baby.

 

Much too close for Bobby’s liking. 

 

_Much MUCH too close fer my boy’s liking._

 

No way can Bobby allow an angry Sam Winchester to happen to Dean’s Impala. Poor kid’s lost enough already. 

 

Bobby’s chest constricts soul deep.

 

Bobby can’t actually believe Sam would intentionally hurt Dean’s lady, but,then again, Bobby never once thought Sam would _ever_ say what he just said, nor did Bobby ever once entertain the notion of Sam speaking to him and Cas the way he did; Dean didn’t raise him like that. So, Bobby, refusing to believe Sam is anything other than their Sam, stays right where he is, trusting, for another moment observing Sam: Hands are still on his head tangled in his hair, his elbows touch and cover his face, flexing open and close…and then…nothing. Sam just stops all motion.

 

"Balls."

 

 _Hell, he probably heard me a’comin’. Damn clank’n’ glasses_.

 

Then again, those darn Winchester boys don’t miss much.

 

If anything. 

 

 

Huntin’ wise, anyway, Bobby smirks. 

 

If it was anyone other than Dean or Sam, Bobby would have cleared his throat to announce his presence and gently proceed.

 

That ain’t the case though, so Bobby just dives in, walking right up to Sam and Dean’s lady.

 

“Mind tellin’ me just what’n’a’hell that was all about, Sam?” 

 

Sam turns around, greeting Bobby’s arrival looking like…well, like shit. Bobby holds up the decanter, an offering of peace, gesturing to it with raised eyebrows and sets the two tumblers nestled between his fingers, on top of a large work bench. Sam nods forlornly in response, and opens the Impalas passenger side door, plopping down in the front seat.

 

 

The Impala, Baby, greets him with a sad sigh from her seat, missing her loving, ever faithful other half.

 

Sam runs his fingers through his mane, blowing out a long, loud exhale, sounding an awful lot like guilt, regret, and fear. “Man, Bobby…” He drags his hands down his face and then back up before steepling them over his nose.

 

“I couldn’t even tell you. I just…” Sam shakes his head solemnly, his eyes wide with disbelief and shame at his own actions. “ …I just watched him limp away, holding his side… He tried to hide it—you know how he gets—,” Sam pauses allowing for the snort and nod of shared sentiment from Bobby, “—and he just left. And what did I, Dean’s _brother_ do? Nothing. I just stood there, Bobby. Dumbfounded." Sam's words catch in his throat and he barely gets out his next words. "Bobby…I…I just let him go.”

 

 

Bobby remains silent, processing what he can as the younger man works through it.

 

Sam loses himself for a moment, trying to make sense of the jumbled influx of memories. “I think, I...I think I followed him to the main entrance, but I don’t really remember. It’s all…weird? Like, I was sort of, I don’t know…watching myself...from…I don’t know, man. It, something isn’t right, Bobby. I can feel it. I didn’t leave here. How could I? I don’t remember anything except the fight with Dean, and bits and pieces of the last twelve hours..maybe more. I’m not really sure.”

 

He clasps his hands, elbows resting on bouncing knees, and continues. “I _am_ sure that I knew I needed to be here when he got back. And then a day went by?… And another?…. I knew you were coming back… Time just…” He flicks his hand in the air. “…. Ya know? I knew Dean wanted to see you; He did something or other to the Impala and couldn’t wait to show you…I……” He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. “I was soooo soooo certain he’d come back…I mean, he only has that stupid, old Pink Floyd t-shirt on and an old pair of ripped up jeans…and…and…he gets cold so easily.” 

 

Sam smiles a small smile and rolls his shoulders. He sits up straighter and looks up at Bobby sadly. “I’m worried about him, Bobby. He barely eats. Barely sleeps. I don’t actually think he sleeps so much as has nightmare after nightmare until Cas sneaks in and knocks him out.” He smiles again and rests his elbow on his knee, and chin in his palm, his eyebrows raising as he reminisces. “It’s kinda cute, actually. Dean has no clue either.” 

 

Sam’s smile falters and tears rush to his eyes. “Bobby…He, he…Bobby… He just walked out… Ran, actually…” Tears of shame burn streams of acid down his cheeks, evidence of his utter betrayal. “Bobby,” Sam pleads for forgiveness he knows he doesn’t deserve. “I fucked him up bad. Oh God. I feel sick,” He runs his hands through his hair again and shakes his head. “Bobby, I. Fuck. I induced a panic attack in him. I sent him back to Hell. Oh my God what have I done?” Sam’s eyes widen, unblinking, staring at the memory of Dean walking away.

 

After a few long minutes of silence, Sam turns to Bobby, tears softly falling. “Bobby, I was wrong. So, so wrong. I feel sick…Oh God, Bobby…Dean’s my _brother_! I love Dean…How…how could I do this? The look on his face… He’s so broken. I had no idea how much pain he’s been in. Still in. I had no idea….God, Bobby, I had no idea! I never even bothered to try to help him! To pay attention to him! Dean would say he’s fine and I’d just accept it. I’d leave it because it was Dean, and Dean is always fine. But he’s not. He’s never been fine, has he Bobby?” 

 

Bobby shakes his head. “No, Sam. No. He hasn’t.” _It’s time for that talk. Sorry, Dean,but your brother needs to know_.

 

Sam’s heart breaks. His soul combusts. He knew Bobby’s answer, but somehow, hearing it voiced, confirmed by Bobby, makes it real, terrifying. The implications. God. “After everything he’s done for me…I was…I’ve always been so focused on what he does to me,” Sam can’t swallow the lump in his throat this time. “I never focus on what he’s done _for_ me.” He covers his face with his hands and weeps. 

 

Bobby’s heart goes out to the other Winchester he considers a son. He can’t stand seeing his boys cry. Giving into the unavoidable ‘chick-flick-moment’, Bobby tips his head with the bourbon back, preparing for ‘The Talk’. Bobby pauses, holding the decanter back a ways in thought. _Huh. Ain’t that somethin.’_ Last time Bobby’s heart hurt like this over his boys, tipped up bottles were empty shells of his failure.

 

But not this time. 

 

Still gunna hurt like hell though. _Gunna hurt me with the tellin’. Gunna hurt Sam with the knowin’. And it’s just gunna plain hurt like hell all over again fer Dean_.

 

Bobby really hates having to do this. One look at Sam though and Bobby knows he has no choice.

 

_I hate having ta hurt ‘em, but sometimes ya hafta cut deep ta make it better._

 

“Damn it, son…” Bobby taps Sam’s bicep with the decanter in a peace offering. 

 

 

Sam looks up at Bobby, somber, but grateful, and accepts the offering. He takes a long drink from the decanter and hands it back to Bobby with shaking hands, barely hidden hitching breaths, and a sad nod. 

 

 

Bobby relieves Sam of the bourbon, taking another swig himself before setting it back on the bench. Deciding to try his hand at lightening the mood before he shatters reality, he asks Sam, “So jus’what’n’hell ya remebering doin’ the last coupl’a’days? And don’t give me any a that soulful non-answer-reflective bullshit a yours either.” His tone holds more affection than anger, and Bobby hopes Sam accepts the gesture for what it is. 

 

 

Sam takes a deep breath with a cautious upturn to the corners of his mouth, and lets it out in a rush, staring off at nothing, hands steeped together on his bouncing knee. “Believe it or not, Bobby, I’ve been trying to figure out how to finish changing the oil.” He rocks forward, huffing a laugh that isn’t as he turns his focus up to Bobby.

 

Bobby, leans back against a workbench, hands gripping the edge of the work bench top. He watches Sam closely, who, to his credit, does look genuinely shaken and remorseful as all by the whole ordeal. 

 

“ You what now? Oil change?” Bobby pushes himself forward a bit toward Sam, meeting Sam’s self-deprecating expression with an amused-but-not-amused-confused expression of his own. “Uh, didn’t your brother teach ya how ta do that…” 

 

‘Before he went to hell’ Remaining unspoken by both hunters.

 

“Yeah,” Sam shrugs and winces sheepishly. “Um, yeah, he diiiiiiid, but, I, I uh, wasn’t really paying attention? And maybe I took it to a Jiffy Lube instead?” Sam cringes and shrinks in on himself, retreating into the safety of Baby knowing full well the sin he committed. _I really don’t have the right to refer to her like that. Wait. When did I start referring to Dean’s car as Baby and her? Dean, Oh, Dean, I’m so sorry, man. So so sorry_.

 

Bobby can’t believe what he just heard. Jiffy. Lube. He closes his eyes briefly. _Of all the dumb shit_. Oh Dean is gunna be real pissed about that one. He opens them with a long blink and equally long sigh. “Balls.” 

 

He pushes himself off the bench and straightens up, fixing Sam with a glare reserved for the blasphemous. “Lemme get this straight, son.” Deep breath. “You brought her,” Points to the Impala. “Dean’s BABY,” Disbelief widening his eyes. “To a JIFFY LUBE?” Bobby squints his face in disgust, venomously hissing out ‘Jiffy Lube’. “Boy, you mus’be possessed. Jiffy Lube…Dean’s gunna kill ya, if he finds out.”

 

Bobby snorts and adjusts his ballcap. “Well, shit, no way he don’t know, and that damn fool brother a yours’ud forgive ya anything.” Bobby shakes his head and mutters, “Idjit,” There’s no heat behind it though.

 

 

“Yeah. Pretty much.” Sam nods, shame boiling over in his stomach coming up and out in a choking half sob. “I, I know, Bobby. I know.”

 

 

||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

 

Castiel has no idea what to do.

 

He knows what he _must_ do.

 

He knows what he _will_ do.

 

He will save Dean.

 

Castiel has done it before, and will do it again. And again, and again, and always will.

 

Dean doesn’t deserve whatever harm has befallen him. He never has, and Cas is terrified for him.

 

When he finds the responsible party, or _parties_ ,

 

Neither Heaven or Hell shall stand in his way.

 

"I will lay waste to everything they hold dear. I shall not rest."

 

Cas lays propped against Dean’s headboard hugging his human’s pillow to his chest, deep in thought. He pulls the pillow to his face along with his knees, and buries his nose. Castiel closes watery eyes, and buries his face deeper into Deans’ pillow. He finally permits himself a brief respite, for the choking, heart wrenching sobs, the likes of which only Dean can achieve in him.

 

Cas’ tears lead to a deep, shuddering inhale in an effort to calm himself, certain that it won’t work, and yet…somehow, it does; Cas inhales again, just to be certain, yes, it works: he feels calmer. But how? Why? Exhaling in thought over this, he hugs Dean’s pillow tighter. Castiel almost laughs; he suddenly understands: It’s Dean. It’s Dean’s uniquely captivating scent. Clean sheets, and almond scented soap; deodorant that smells like rain. Cordite, gun oil, a hint of sweat mingling with after shave and...Cas smiles, surprised, pleasantly so, actually, inhaling once again. “Yves Saint Laurent.” The exact cologne Cas was so intrigued by when the two of them had gone shopping.

 

This time, Cas does laugh. Shopping. Something so…normal. Domestic. A completely different-- _rare_ \-- side of Dean that Cas was extremely excited, and surprised, to see.

 

Dean had very logical reasoning though, of course.

 

Dean's excuse was that Cas needed something else to wear beside a trench coat and suit. 

 

Castiel smiles softly, remembering.

 

Dean has rather exceptional taste in clothing. 

 

Castiel had wanted to say so, but Dean had other ideas, despite the fact that Castiel was so eager and so proud to share this news, but Cas would never betray that trust. Cas wouldn’t: "…Dare open that cute little feathered mouth a yours and say a damned word about it.” 

 

Cute.

 

Dean had called him cute.

 

Cas was, of course, going to point it out to Dean, but had decided against it. 

 

Something told him that Dean had no clue he had said it, and would most certainly NOT appreciate being informed of his self-proclaimed transgression, despite the fact that Dean is becoming more and more comfortable with himself as of late. And that is a wonderful change to witness. He just wishes Dean would come to terms with who he is: a beautiful, loving, generous, selfless, loyal, _strong_ , caring, fearless, truly good soul worthy of love and comfort and gentleness. Cas truly wishes for Dean’s sake, that Dean would be completely at ease with his sexual identity as well. Castiel can sense the stress it is causing the younger man. He wants Dean know, to understand that it is the soul, not the gender with which one falls in love. 

 

Love is not something one has control over. 

 

Apparently, publicly reminding your _male_ best friend that he just called you, another man, cute, is frowned upon.

 

So Castiel kept quiet and went on smelling different colognes.

 

Cas had absolutely NO clue Dean was paying attention to him while he was exclaiming how very much he loved the way that particular scent had reminded him of Heaven and beauty (and Dean himself). Cas did NOT say that last part out loud though. He really doesn’t want to terrify the hunter.

 

 _But how very, very interesting Dean purchased this particular cologne simply because I like it. Hm. He purchased it for me. Oh, Dean_. Cas smiles a giddy, girlie smile, his Dean would say, but that makes Cas smile even more, moaning softly as he inhales his hunters scent.

 

Again.

 

And again.

 

One more time.

 

Cas has become quite good at deciphering the requirements, demands, feelings, and needs of his vessel over the years; So it’s nowhere near a surprise when he feels his pants tighten in a particularly sensitive area whenever he thinks of Dean.

 

Or smells Dean.

 

Or sees Dean. 

 

Castiel hasn’t been confused about how he feels for Dean in a very long time. Once he finally devoted all his thought and time to the unprecedented emotional storm in his Grace and soul, Cas discovered something extremely vital:

 

He’s in love.

 

With his charge.

 

The beautiful soul he gripped tight and raised from Perdition.

 

The Righteous Man.

 

Dean Winchester.

 

 _His Dean Winchester_.

 

He smiles, lovingly placing Dean’s pillow home, and stands up, stretching out his limbs, a renewed sense of hope filling his Grace. 

 

“Dean…Dean, Dean, Dean…help me find you; Help me to see what happened between you and Sam…” Cas squints, occasionally with a tilt of his head, at Dean’s belongings as he walks around his best friend’s room. 

 

Cas isn’t exactly sure what he’s looking for, but he’s certain that at least one piece of this horrific puzzle can be obtained from here. It suddenly occurs to Cas, sadly, as he studies the absolutely immaculate and painstaking, loving care Dean has given each of his (minuscule amount) personal items, as to why Dean is so proud and so happy to reside here, in the bunker, in his room. “You finally have a home, Dean. And your own room.” 

 

That is just…

 

…so profoundly sad.

 

And absolutely endearing. 

 

Dean is overjoyed by having a home while Sam just dismisses it. And why wouldn’t he? Dean is the reason Sam was able to have those things. 

 

Why Sam was able to have a childhood, where Dean’s was forfeit.

 

Dean was not allowed.

 

Dean was not permitted.

 

Dean was DENIED his childhood.

 

By John. Dean’s ’FATHER’.

 

For Sam. Dean’s ’BROTHER’.

 

Castiel tilts his head back toward the heavens, Grace boiling over with wrath. “Father give me strength.”

 

“All Dean got was his car--” Cas cuts himself off as it occurs to him that Dean’s Baby can help. He makes to leave Dean’s room, but in his haste Cas clips his hip on Dean’s desk, the ensuing nudge enough to turn the screen saver off Dean’s laptop revealing three open windows all with live recording and audio. One of the entire Bunker garage, one an extreme close up of the Impala, _Of course_ and one of under the Impala. “Dean, you are adorable.” Castiel’s huff of laughter ceases immediately when he focuses in on two figures: Bobby and Sam. 

 

“Fascinating.” Cas can practically hear Dean addressing him as Spock for that one. 

 

Cas takes a seat and begins the process of going back three days.

 

Castiel WILL find out what happened.

 

“Please, Sam, please, do not give me cause to send you back to the cage.”


	11. "I Just Want Something I Can Never Have"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When dreams turn to nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my dear Lord have been editing and re-writing ridiculously with this one! I've also had real life issues that have kept me from updating. 
> 
> That's the bad news.  
> Well, okay, THIS is the bad news: I am breaking this chapter up because it was driving me nuts.
> 
> Good news: That means that one part is done and the next is nipping at the heels! Dean whumpage in 3...
> 
> 2...
> 
> ....GO!

Dean is happy. 

 

He feels awesome; working on Baby always does that. He loves working on his lady. And he loves his lady. She was due for an oil change and, as always, Dean is more than happy to oblige her every need, so here he is underneath her. Perfectly content. 

 

“I can see why this is so pleasing to you, Dean. It is rather peaceful underneath here.” 

 

“Gah! Shit! Jeez! C-Cas!” Dean startles, jerking up and banging his head on Baby’s chassis as his angel suddenly appears right alongside him underneath the Impala. He grimaces and rubs his forehead. That hurt. Damn. “Owww…” Dean pouts and glances over at Cas quickly, confirming what he feels: Castiel on his back, side pressed firmly against Dean. The close proximity feels way too good and Dean is blushing way too brightly because of it. Blushing? Shit, he shouldn’t be blushing at all. 

 

 _Why am I blushing?_ Damn it. Damn it all. 

 

Fucking angel. 

 

_Sexy ass angel. Raven hair. Electric blue, beautiful fucking blue eyes…_

 

Breathe.

Gasp. 

Groan. 

Groaning. Gasping, heat pooling low in his belly, pulse racing, heart brutally pummeling his chest. _Too hot._ And he knows, dollars to donuts knows, he’s blushing all over with absolutely zero control to be had. 

 

_Fuck it. I’m blushing. It’s okay. Duddin’ matter. Cas don’t care, right? So, uh, why should I? I’ll just keep on blushing. ‘Cuzzits okay. It’s all okay. Yup. ‘S’okay._

 

Dean wipes a dirty hand over his, now even dirtier, face, and turns his head to confront his angel, who has this adorably scheming grin plastered all over his _clean and beautiful face_ …Rational thought leavin’ because Cas’ blue eyes are dancing all over Baby’s underside. _In admiration._ …And there it goes…Words. He was gonna say… The corners of those eyes crinkling with mischief… Something… The sweep of that tongue… _Cas is licking his lips and fuck me Cas looks so fucking sexy._ …has Dean’s dick twitching with interest.

 

Dean just stares at Cas. It’s s’damn quiet Dean swears Cas can hear Dean’s dick straining against the fabric of his jeans, and the longer the silence blankets them, it’s more than just Dean’s face being dirty. His thoughts are dirty. Downright filthy, actually. Thoughts that are downright _pornographic_ merrily skipping in the gutter. 

 

Thoughts that tighten his jeans. 

Painfully.

 

_It’s all Cas’ fault. His damn blue eyes. How he looks at me. Touches me. How he cares about me so much that he FELL for me. Damn it,Cas._

 

Dean swallows thickly and licks his lips, unable to rip off the band-aid separating his eyes from Cas’ lips. Dean rubs his thighs together, desperate for relief, and for the life of him, Dean cannot think of a single damn thing to say.

 

“Hello, Dean,”

 

Then again, Cas always has some witty repartee to Dean’s dumbfoundedness. 

 

Cas slowly turns his head to greet Dean, grinning. 

 

The fucker is grinning. And close.

 

Cas is so close; So close. 

 

Dean licks his lips again. _Kiss me, Cas. Kiss me._

 

Dean swallows. Fuck. His throat is really dry. 

 

Parched. Yeah. Parched. He’s parched. Dean needs a drink. That’s the reason. _It’s not, Dean, and you know it. Can’t hide your feelings forever, his mind sings. Vicious lies. I’m thirsty._

 

‘Cuz he’s thirsty. Yeah, yup. Yup. That’s why. Not ‘cuz he wants to makeout with his angel or anything. No. He’s just…thirsty. _Oh I am so fucked._

 

And their noses are nearly touching.

 

Thirsty.

 

So thirsty.

 

Parched.

 

Fucked. _Yuh hahn, FUCKED. I want him to fuck--SHUTUP! Cas does NOT want me like that. Oh, god, brain and dick and heart just shut it…pleeeease…_

 

“It is rather romantic under here, Dean.” Bastard angel licks his damn lips.

 

Again.

 

Sweet Jesus. Fuckin’ Cas, man. Dean sucks his lower lip in and bites it as he follows the sweep of Cas’ tongue, staring at the angels lips long after that thirst quenching tongue retreats. 

 

And, as usual, they make love. With their eyes. EYES, damn it, EYES! Damn it all to Hell. _I want him. Oh do I want him._

 

“Do you not agree?” Cas asks, rolling his tongue over his lips at length, knowing full well just where his human’s thoughts have gone.

 

Dean swallows again, mouth arid. Dick impossibly hard, throbbing in agreement with Dean’s thoughts. _Jesus._ Fuck; He’s so fucking hard. Nods, agreeing. Terrified. Excited. Butterflies attack his stomach way, WAY too aggressively.

 

Shit. Dean’s breath hitches, pupils dilating. He bites his lip again. His jeans tighten _really_ painfully and he barely scrapes out a rough, “Y-Yeah, um, yuh-yeah, sure, Cas,” He squirms, a soft little whimper escaping, as he tries to ease the unrelenting pressure between his legs. 

 

“I am going to kiss you now, Dean.”

 

“Oh-okay.” He swallows slowly. 

 

“Is that alright, Dean?”

 

“Yuh-hahn,” Slight open mouth. Nods. Licks his lips with anticipation. _It’s gonna happen. It…it’s gonna happen!_

 

Cas smiles lovingly and closes the scant gap between them.

 

Dean watches until his eyes cross.

 

Cas gently presses his lips to Dean’s, swallowing Dean’s gasp of surprised pleasure.

 

Dean’s eyes close and he whimpers into Cas’ mouth, heart pumping a marathon. He gives himself over: heart, mind and soul to Cas, as if he hadn’t already, moaning desperately as their tongues hungrily slide over and stroke each other. He groans wantonly, needy for his angel, thoughts nothing but _CasCasCasCasCasCas._ . His hips twitch and roll upward, delicious friction greeting him.

 

Castiel slips his hand under Dean’s t-shirt so he can caress Dean’s stomach, groaning as he feels twitching abdominal muscles under smooth, silken skin. Cas glides his hand down under the waistband of Dean’s jeans and boxers, growling a hungry, possessive sound as his hand closes around Dean’s erection. 

 

_CasCasCasCasCasNeedNeedNeedNeedWantWantWantMoreMoreMoreMoreMorePleaseDon’tStopWantYouCasLoveYouCasLoveYouLoveYouLoveYouSOMuchCas!_

 

It’s as if all Dean’s atoms were suddenly connected by a bolt of lightning. His entire being bursts into a bright rainbow of colors, twinkling and sparkling with fuzzy edges of the most brilliant blue he’s ever seen. It’s overwhelming and so perfect all at once. A warm breeze swirls around him, starting at his toes and caressing upward though every inch of him. It’s erotic as all hell and Dean has never felt anything _that_ fucking good. _EVER_ He whimpers and sobs helplessly, writhing under his angels touch, bucking his hips frantically as he cums. 

 

As he cums _hard_ in his jeans. 

 

In the hand of an Angel.

 

He wants more. He wants all of Cas.

 

Dean wants Cas in every way possible. 

 

He cums again, panting and moaning into their kiss. And his dick is still hard. His dick has never been so hard in his life.  
And then Cas is rubbing Dean’s cum over the head of Dean’s dick with his thumb.

 

Dean can’t get enough.

 

And then Cas is rubbing just under the tip along that line underneath with that same wonderful thumb and sucking on Dean’s tongue. Holy fuck. He pumps his hips, writhing in ecstasy, fucking Cas’ hand, and God help him it’s the most exquisite--Jesuzzzz! Cas is squeezing his dick in perfect harmony with his pumping hips. 

 

Dean cries out Castiel as another orgasm rips though him. He arches his back, helpless in his bliss, before falling back boneless and sated. He fists his hands in Cas’ shirt, sucking on Cas’ tongue as he comes down off an incredible high.

 

Until he realizes what he just did. 

 

What he _wants_ to do next.

 

Dean gasps, ashamed, and pulls back, scrambling away from Cas. He digs his heels into the ground, pulling rapidly to scoot himself out from under the car using his crawler.

 

He stands up, panicking.

 

Ashamed.

 

And he’s still rock solid despite all his orgasms.

 

Ashamed.

 

With a giant wet spot on the front of his jeans.

 

His fathers homophobic rants bite into him: ‘FAGGOT. WEAK FUCKING HOMO! GIRL. WHINY LITTLE PRINCESS. PRETTY. PRETTY LITTLE BOY. BOYS AREN’T PRETTY, DEAN. ONLY GIRLS. YOU’RE A GIRL. NO SUPPOSED SON OF MINE WILL BE A FUCKING COCKSUCKER.’ Stinging just as agonizingly as the whippings from his hero.

 

Dean staggers backward into Baby, tears filling his eyes, unblinking, unfocused, staring at the horrors of his past. He clutches his socket wrench, pressing it against his heart protectively. 

 

Cas reappears right in front of Dean, head canted to the left in his usual silent appraisal. Cas is sad. Dean hates that. Not the silence. Not the intensity of appraisal. But the sadness. The pain. He hates seeing Cas hurt or upset. _All my fault. I always hurt you, Cas. I’m so sorry._ His breath stutters out, tears cascading down his face. He wants Cas so badly…but his father words taunt him, mock him, making him feel so worthless and wrong for loving a man. For loving an angel. It’s not fair. Why can’t he be with Cas? It doesn’t feel wrong. Why does his father hate him for who he chooses to give his heart? Why is that so wrong? 

 

Castiel gently curves his hands around Dean’s face and Dean gasps, closing his eyes against the intimacy. Cas brushes away Dean’s tears with his thumbs, then kisses Dean’s forehead with affection, reverence. Dean has never felt anything like it. But that’s pretty much the norm with Cas. Then there’s a kiss to his nose, and it’s overwhelming and wonderful and, and, and… Dean inhales, trembling, unsure, needing. It feels so right. So natural. 

 

Cas kisses each of his cheeks, and then his lips. Dean’s heart races. He kisses Cas back. It’s a slow, tender kiss. Chaste, even. Cas covers Dean’s hands, gently coaxing them to open and give way to the wrench. Dean relinquishes his shield. Dean is open and vulnerable, but he’s not afraid. Cas is safety. Cas is home. 

 

Castiel is love.

 

“So beautiful, Dean.” And Dean knows Cas is referring to his soul because Cas has always, only ever seen _Dean._

 

Castiel drops the wrench and brings his hands to cheeks, caressing them lovingly, “So precious, my mate,” Castiel’s wings unfurl, and Dean gasps in awe, watching, mesmerized, as Cas stretches them out before wrapping his wings protectively around his charge, his love. Dean’s gaze is full of wonder and disbelief,and his heart explodes with love. Castiel smiles and nuzzles their noses together. “I love you, Dean.” 

 

Dean’s breath catches. “C-Cas,” Gently Dean presses his left hand to his angel’s chest, and his right on Cas’ left cheek. He grins, tears of joy rapidly filling his eyes. “Cas, I love--”

 

Blood suddenly spurts out from between Dean’s splayed fingers on Cas’ chest.

 

“C-Cas?” Dean stares, backs up slightly, eyes traveling over every inch of his angel, brow furrowing with disbelief, terror seizing his soul, thieving all function. 

 

A hand covered in blood and grace bursts through the angels chest to wrap around Dean’s neck.

 

Castiel glares abhorrently at Dean and spits out, “I’m dragging you back to the Pit,” before dissipating into John Winchester.

 

“NOOO!” Dean’s sob is cut off as he chokes.

 

“Yes.” John sneers. “You fucking faggot! How dare you get off on a monster!! Worthless piece of shit!” John rips off Dean’s manhood with his right hand as he strangles Dean with his left, all the while screaming how Dean is not his son. 

 

*******************************

 

Rachel watches and laughs.


	12. "I AM NOT AS FINE AS I SEEM. Pardon."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***WARNING***
> 
> PLEASE TAKE HEED IF YOU DON'T LIKE OR GET TRIGGERED BY GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF INJURIES, BLOOD, AND TORTURE.
> 
> This chapter is very depressing and self-loathsome to our hero. 
> 
> I wrote it to the God Of War 3, and Assassin's Creed Ezio Collection Soundtracks, so take that as you may.
> 
> It's not as long as I like, but if I didn't separate it, it'd be a 10K word chappy.
> 
> According to my mother, who is no stranger to medical trauma, found this to be very graphic and squeamish.
> 
> Personally, I don't, but then again, I'm crazy, so.lol 
> 
> Hope ya like!

Dean screams himself hoarse, writhing and bucking, devoured by his nightmare: Cas with a giant hole in his chest. It won’t leave him. Somehow being unable to fully open both his eyes makes it so much worse. Shit, it makes EVERYTHING worse. He can’t differentiate reality from his nightmare.He’s so confused. He’s helpless and vulnerable, and rapidly losing control. It won’t stop. Cas dead. Dean’s father ripping him apart. Over and over and over. He can’t take it. It won’t stop. 

 

Wailing in anguish he succumbs to his panic. The urge to run,escape, run, run, run all too powerful to ignore, so he doesn’t. Dean runs, he thinks he does, he really does and he can’t understand why he’s not going anywhere or why it hurts so badly. In reality he’s actually swinging, sickeningly, on the meat hook in his side, but he’s too far gone; too lost in agony and terror to realize. The hook pulls and tugs his flesh, moves inside him, kissing organs. Blood, sticky and wet, once again drenching his side and waist. 

 

Is he running? He must be. He’s sweating. But, it’s sticky and warm. It…it doesn’t feel right.

 

It feels like blood.

 

He squirms, coming back a bit.

 

He’s bleeding.

 

His blood. So sticky. Wet. Warm.

 

Hot.

 

Cold.

 

Hot.

 

Sticky.

 

Bleeding. _I’m bleeding._

 

Blood is sticky.

 

Why is blood so sticky? It’s not sticky, per say, at first, but once it’s all over you. Blood. So much blood. In Hell he was bathed in it. When he had no choice but to carve, he was elbows deep. Everywhere. Blood was…blood was all…all…over. 

 

So much red. RedRedRedRedRedRedRedRed. 

 

So hot. HotHotHotHotHotHot.

 

And fire. Burning. 

 

Everything was burning. 

 

Dean wants out. 

 

Out of his burning house.

 

Everything burns.

 

His insides are burning, melting.

 

BurnBurnBurnBurnFireFireFireFireRedRedRedBurnFireMomMomSammySammySammySammySammy.

 

Don’ feel good.

 

‘S’confused.

 

He wants everything off, out, and right goddamn now.

 

PanicPanicAlarmTerrorPanic.

 

Breaths are coming faster and shallow.

 

Wanna go home. Can’t. Home is ash.

 

Want the hook out.

 

Petrified keening weeps from the very depth of Dean’s suffering soul, pouring out between trembling lips. Broken, completely distraught, he steals one last look at the gruesome horror that he is. Defeated, exhausted, his head falls, chin resting gingerly on his tattered chest. Thoughts become sluggish and fuzzy and he’s so…

 

Dean is just…done. 

 

So there is no struggle, no fight when the dark comes.

 

**

********

**

Peace never lasts long for Dean. 

 

Waking up in general was never pleasant either.

 

Waking up on a spit over an open flame with his dad cackling, manic grin on his face as he turns Dean over and over the fire, is not exactly awesome either.

 

But, that seems to be the Dean Winchester standard. 

 

And with that, Dean snaps awake, his entire body jolting brutally. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and inform him why he inhaled sharply and is suddenly in tremendous pain. 

 

His brain also told him to stay still.

 

But, Dean never could stay still.

 

Like, ever.

 

Like, still.

 

Like, now, for instance.

 

Now he’s freaking out again and the barbwire binding his arms together are tighten further with his frantic travailing, shredding flexing muscles, scraping bone. Igniting every nerve he has. 

 

He’s on fire.

 

Blood rains down his arms, pouring over his face, dripping off his chin, drenching his shoulders, his torso, and Dean, oblivious to the sanguinary results of his hysterical struggling.

 

The futility of it all is heartbreaking. 

 

Flames. He’s on fire. He has to be. Fire licking his toes, slithering up to his arms, curling around each wrist, every finger. 

 

It’s everywhere: The blood, the flames, the smoke, the rotting flesh, the stench of sulfur and brimstone, new flesh being carved and splayed open. Blood so thick he tastes it. It poisons the stagnant haze settling around him. Blood and fire.

 

BLOOD

FIRE

RED

BURN

BLOOD

HOT

BLOOD

FIRE

MOM

SAMMY

_CAS_

 

Burning. They’re all burning.

 

Cas is…burning. Cas is burning. Cas’ wings are aflame and charred and he’s bleeding from a giant hole in his chest. And it’s all Dean’s fault.

 

It’s always his fault.

 

He’s so, so, so, so unimaginably sorry.

 

Fraught with his insight of perpetual sadism from the bowels of Hell, Dean ululates feral and savage; The lament of the hopeless, and of the damned.

 

It’s becoming increasingly enigmatic for Dean to differentiate reality from hallucination, past from present, one section of his mind from another from another. 

 

For the first time since Hell (if he actually left, he’s beginning to question that as well), Dean is truly petrified.

 

 _Cas…Cas…I…I…need you. Please. Please, Castiel, hear my prayer._ Tears bleed from his swollen shut eyes, wailing, out of his mind in agony, begging for Cas. 

 

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…

 

_My fault, my fault, my fault…_

 

Dean is in a crucible for his sanity.

 

Out of sympathy, perhaps more so, empathy, Dean’s chest wall finally gives. Petechial hemorrhage freckles shine like stars against the black and bluish sky of his torso. Abdominal muscles tear further complimenting the latest bunch of tears. Ribs pop. Cartilage, well, shit, that shit was long gone. Shoulders desperate to relieve their burden of…everything, finally separate, dropping Dean a few inches lower with a jolt and sharp gasp on his inhale. And then he’s yelping like he just got a hot fireplace poker shoved up his ass. 

 

Yes, he does know how that feels.

 

It fucking really hurts.

 

A drowning man finds a life preserver.

 

Losing it, man. Losing it.

 

Dean just finds a semblance of lucidity in a fucking emotional roller-coaster with a giant laughing dildo beside him.

 

Yeah. What the freak did that come from?

 

S’wah, wha’ppen?

 

Oh. 

 

Shoulder dislocate.

 

Jolt.

 

Fall.

 

Gasp.

 

Pain.

 

That totally did not feel good with the meat hook and all. Not the hot poker, hee hee: Poke. Her. Poke he. Pokey poke poke Casty--Wasty with the nice assy!

 

_I lost A LOT of blood. Waaaaywaaaywaaaaay lotsa’bluhhd if I’m this giddy and having interactive conversations with myself beeeeetweeeeen ha ha, bouts boats? No. Boats. No!NO! Bouts.Bouts. That’s the one. Yup. Um. Oh. Riiiiight. Bouts of luciditittttiiiiitttttiiiiiiieee ah ah ah ah. Panic? Was I panicking? Fuck, dude, I’m so confused. Pffft…Yeeeeeaaah, I’m gonna go ahead and need you to move your desk to the basement. But, Sir! Wait! Been there done that too hot. He took my stapler. That don’t make a lick of sense. Like at ALL. Aw, crap. Feels like the first time..ooo ooo the very first time… God damn bats man! BATMAN! Ha ha! Singing songs, quoting Fear and Loathing In Los? Las? Vegas... Veheheheheheheheguhguguhguhuhsssss. I feel pretty! Oh so pretty! I feel witty and pretty and gaaaaaay! And I pity, anyone who isn’t me tonight! Bahahahahahahahaha! Gay. Pretty…fuhfuhfuhfuhuhccckkkk…Bye-bye._

Now.

 

Where was he?

 

_Am I in Hell?_

 

_No…I don’t think…so…_

 

Oooooh.

 

There’s that damn lucidity dildo monkey again.

 

Right…

 

About...that…

 

Dean is hysterical with insane laughter in his head.

 

_Jesus. I am duuuuun for. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaa!_

 

So yeah…

 

_Why do I break so easy?_

 

_My dad didn’t break._

 

_And he was there longer._

 

_Did Sam break in The Cage?_

_They were both there longer and didn’t break._

_I really am weak._

_Cas and the other angels should have just left me._

_I fucked up so bad._

_I always fuck up._

_I only think about myself._

_I, mean, obviously, I did break after so little time just to spare myself._

_And, oh God, I did like cutting into some of them._

_I’m so fucking weak and pathetic._

_I deserve this._

_I deserve this._

_Useless._

_Worthless._

_Pathetic._

_Weak._

_So weak._

_I’m done_

_Out._

_I …_

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided that it may be a good idea to warn all of you when the torture begins, and when it ends, so no one gets slapped in the face with it unexpectedly. At the beginning of the chapter, in the notes, I'll leave where by way of paragraphs as to where to skim over. Or, if I can figure out how to annotate via my word processor, I'll do that. I don't want anyone to get hurt. 
> 
> If you guys know of a better way to do it, please let me know! :D
> 
> Thank you! 
> 
> All my love!


End file.
